


Call Me By My Name

by MeikoAtsushi



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: A lot of SAD backstory, A lot of backstory, AND DRAMA, Alternate Universe - Escorts, Bodyguard Jeon Jungkook, Dancer Park Jimin (BTS), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escort Kim Namjoon, Escort Min Yoongi, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Homophobia, I basically created my own escort AU, Inaccurate representation of escorts, Insecurity, Kim Seokjin is an asshole with reasons, Kim Taehyung | V is Whipped, Lee Taemin is the savior, M/M, Min Yoongi | Suga Is Bad at Feelings, Minor Character Death, Model Kim Taehyung | V, Pining, Secretary Jung Hoseok | J-Hope, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, blackmailing, chaebol kim seokjin, dubcon, fake relationships, heck ton of feels, just idiots being idiots, not with main pairings, or are they?, taejin are brothers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2020-07-31 03:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 102,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20108455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeikoAtsushi/pseuds/MeikoAtsushi
Summary: And Jesus Christ, he wants to scream at His Higher because it should be illegal to create a being so phenomenally gorgeous, his sea blue locks scattered like flower petals over Yoongi’s sheets and his pearly skin glowing under his cheap lights, every curve so precious and his smile enrapturing – everything about him is something to be treasured, and he’s now on Yoongi’s bed, beaming at him with the power of a million suns and flowers. Taehyung’s smile would cure cancer and create a whole new Mother Earth altogether.“No,” Yoongi grunts, “You’re giving me a cardiac arrest.”Taehyung laughs melodiously, “Why, because I’m so out-worldly attractive?”You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, Yoongi thinks.“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” Taehyung’s mouth parts, his bright expression crumbling in shock, and, “Fuck, did I say that aloud?” Pause. “Shit.”Alternatively: Min Yoongi is an escort with history and a crappy personality, but Kim Taehyung looks beyond that. Kim Seokjin just wants to love without having to pick up the shattered pieces of his heart again, and Kim Namjoon is sick of all this bullshit. Life just has to be so complicated.





	1. BigHit Escort Services

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeweredbytheskewer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeweredbytheskewer/gifts).

> Hey, look who's back with a plot that they'd been planning and working on for two months. It's not the best story you'll read, but at least I am enjoying writing it. So far, I got six chapters finished, which is about twenty percent of the story (maybe less, I'm not a very accurate person). Updates will hopefully be bi-weekly, but senior year and college applications are hectic so we'll see how it goes. 
> 
> I love Taegi and their relationship, and I wanted to experiment with something other than Yoonmin for once. Hoseok is alone once again (I swear I love him to bits I don't know why I do this to him), Yoongi is in denial, Kim Taehyung is just a fucking great sweetheart. 
> 
> WARNING: This story will contain minor sexual content (pretty much implicit) and in the future, there will be mentions of inappropriate actions taken during intercourse, but I'll always make sure to add warnings at the beginning of each chapter. If that isn't your thing, proceed to exit this fic once and for all. 
> 
> The first chapter is the shortest with ~6k words, but it gets a lot longer after that. Let's get started!

It was an awful day.

He believed it couldn’t get any worse from his client last Christmas, where he had been forced to entertain sixty-something people of the Lee family that owned the Lee Corporation, straining at least two hundred different muscles to smile like a charmed idiot all evening. It would’ve been better if his cursed _client_ actually made an effort for the arrangement to work out, but no, Lee Seungyeon was the most fucking stubborn man on the planet, and as a result, Yoongi was stuck with the task of attempting to make them appear as a loving, doting couple, popping a spoonful of vanilla cake in Seungyeon’s downturned mouth. That _brat. _

But no, this industry always managed to surprise him, all in the most mortifying ways.

“How was your job?”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m not talking about it.”

A snort, “Went terrible, I assume. I told you, don’t judge an assignment by its dollar signs, Yoongi-hyung.” Kim Namjoon, his fellow friend in the same occupation, shakes his head and clucks his tongue admonishingly. “There are many jobs that don’t require constantly elevating stress levels and dealing with rich ‘diamond spoon’ kids.”

Yoongi snorts, as he squeezes into a comfortable position on their usual table in the office. “Unfortunately, the rich ‘diamond spoon’ kids spout cash, and that’s exactly what I need. It’s a give-and-take trade, even in all odds.”

Namjoon fondles with the handle of his mug, as the entrance of the office shuts and closes every minute or so, bustling with clients and escorts. “Are you going to tell me about your most recent rich client?” On cue, the next heiress of the Yoo Ceramics and Glassware Group trudges past, glimpsing their direction at the mention of the term ‘rich’, a familiar male escort by her arm.

With an elongated sigh, Yoongi huffs, “Don’t even get me started.” He rubs his forehead, “She was an absolute nightmare. I clearly handed the guidelines and rulebook to her, and I _know _that nobody fucking reads the Terms and Agreements sheet anyway, but you know we always ensure that they at least read the Bold page.” Namjoon nods – the Bold Page was the main five so-called laws that both the client and the escort were entitled to keep – once broken, the partnership was over. “And she read it. Obviously, she’s either illiterate or blind because none of the words had gone through her poodle-perm hair – she was _actually _trying to flirt off-grounds even after I screeched in her caked face that I was hella homo, what the _fuck_.”

“Han Heejoo, right?” Namjoon confirms, wearing a sympathetic gaze. “She seemed feisty the moment she entered this office. You should’ve seen Baekhyun’s face; he was downright petrified by her presence.”

Han Heejoo – she was his most recent client, and the second daughter to the CEO of the Han Electronics, with a wad of cash in her Dior purse and sunglasses, her tight leather skirt and silk leggings, and her fluffy white cashmere sweater that tickled Yoongi’s nostrils on their very first encounter. He stepped out every thirty minutes for a sneezing fit and regressed with a pink nose, as she mistook him for being flustered by her beauty. What a joke.

Everything about the woman was unbearable – she owned at least thirty varieties of fur coats and Yoongi had allergies to the dust that infested her clothing. Her makeup was all reds and oranges, purples and greens, and all the strong colors that never matched up with her style or attire. The overly sweet, pungent scent of her Jo Malone perfume suffocated him as she clung to his shoulder, and her spiky earrings scratched his blazer as she leaned against his side. It did not help that she loved flaunting her money at every single occasion possible, demanding Yoongi to kiss her while seducing him with a bonus of 700,000 won. It had been entrancing, in a monetary sense, but that was about as far as the attraction traveled.

“I’m just relieved that it’s over.” Yoongi shudders, tracing a finger over the spot on his shoulder where her polished pastel pink nails had scraped. “Couldn’t have dealt with her for another appointment, I swear.”

“At least you won’t be at work for a while,” Namjoon glances sideways, towards a line of newer escorts that joined at the beginning of the year. “The rookies have been receiving client after client – makes me feel sorry for them. It’s part of the training, but they set you up with all the nasty old men.”

Yoongi flicks a haughty finger at his companion. “It’s an efficient method to filter out the sensitive ones. Sensitivity is a poisoned needle in this industry – I wholeheartedly support the program.” He scans the boys with a second-long skim, “Any promising ones? Reduces the workload and all.”

With an affirming final glimpse at the crowd, Namjoon lowers his voice. “You see the blond one?”

“There are literally five different shades of blond in that group, my guy.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “The prettiest one, of course. With the pierced left ear, obnoxious silver earring and sapphire pendant cufflinks?” And Yoongi does see the boy – he looks like the general definition of a ‘catch’, a hot escort that the younger generation seems to adore nowadays. “He’s skilled, apparently. Name is Kang Daniel. Madam Goh purchased those cufflinks for him – it’s real sapphire.”

“Damn,” Yoongi whispers under his breath, “He got Madam Goh to like him? He’s paving a path of gold right there.” Madam Goh was one of the sponsors for their company, the Empress of the Goh Family and its branch groups; she had a penchant for pretty boys and jewelry. Yoongi had only conversed with her once, and as much as he struggled to impress her, she was a tricky woman with refined taste. Namjoon was slightly more successful but marginally, and it turned out that the lady was much more intrigued by his depth of knowledge than his service.

“Yeah, pretty much. He’s cute, what would you expect? Young, too. You should’ve seen him at the office dinner yesterday night – he’s a dancer.” Yoongi grunts, exasperated. Of course, the kid’s just got to be cute, mesmerizing, and a great dancer. It was the premium package for the ultimate escort. “I know, life is unfair. Equality is not a thing, I keep telling people.”

Amidst their conversation, a woman with a red necktie and standard office suit approaches their table, a clipboard tucked under her arm and her phone in the other. “RM? The boss is requesting you for a special assignment.”

“Really, special assignment?” Namjoon sounds skeptical because their boss had the tendency to label every trivial task as a ‘special assignment’. Regardless, none of the escorts were in the position to refuse a direct job request, especially not Namjoon or Yoongi, who were considered to be relative amateurs in the field. “That’s my cue to leave, hyung. You have the next two days off, right?” The older nods. “I’ll call you for dinner tomorrow. What about lamb skewers?”

“Sounds terrific.”

“Great, I’ll see you at the regular place, then.”

Namjoon follows the secretary’s trail, and that’s when he finally notices the time on the blue plastic clock. It’s 6 in the evening, and he had Thursday and Friday off – which was rare because that’s ordinarily when the jobs come in waves – they’d be assigned to one of three jobs on Thursday, debrief and meet the client on Friday, and then lengths of the task would vary. To have the two busiest days off was a blessing in itself. He couldn’t wait to cleanse the repugnant floral scent of Han Heejoo that coated his body, and that burgundy lipstick stain that was somewhere on his collarbone that he couldn’t seem to wash away. Stretching his legs and muscles, he rises from the roundtable and heads outside of the office, bumping into another escort he hasn’t seen around.

He can’t quite remember how he began working here – at BigHit Escort Services. He does know it was approximately five years ago, when he was drowning in student loans and debt, desperate to find a job that could feed his empty stomach and perhaps pay off his rent as well. He was in the company without many challenges before he knew, and he met Namjoon in the process, who was in a similar dilemma as he was. Despite the obscure associations of the term, ‘escort’, there really wasn’t much to it either – it was merely acting out a role for some person that needed it. Often times he’d be an angry ex-boyfriend that barged into their girlfriend’s wedding, and on other occasions, he was a temporary lover to get rid of any unnecessary admirers. He always enjoyed crashing weddings, witnessing the bride or the groom’s face contort in horror, as he bawled in the middle of the red carpet crying, ‘How could you do this to me’, ‘I can’t believe you were marrying another girl’, accusing a perfectly straight man to be gay. Yoongi wasn’t aware that he had a knack for acting before he became an escort.

“You going home, Gloss?”

He steps into the elevator as the other escort holds the doors for him. “Thanks – yeah, I’m going home. And it’s Suga now, P.O.”

P.O., whom he still doesn’t know the real name of, gives his atypical toothy grin. He presses the G floor for both of them and leans against the metal walls. “You change your alias too often. Wasn’t it AgustD when you first entered?”

“The boss told me it was too long,” He chuckles, and P.O. snickers along with him. “You’re heading back already?”

P.O. opens his phone and scrolls through his messages. “Nah, I have a night errand. Mino wants me to grab a beer with him before, though, so.” They walk out of the lift at the simultaneously, and the other escort waves a friendly hand at him. “See you around, Suga.”

He mumbles back a farewell and hauls an orange taxi to the sidewalk. Six o’ clock of Seoul bustles with people and traffic, the sun setting towards the horizon and streetlights flickering on one by one, in neon colors of yellow, white, and blue. Yoongi has always despised the hustle of the megacity, the hum, and honks of the metropolis, the stone-faced occupants, and the lack of silence. He longed for the quiet of his hometown, with black electric communication wires over his head and one lamp that would whizz and switch on and off on its own.

This wasn’t how he pictured his life in his twenties would unfold, and he realized his teachers were correct – one’s passions don’t lead them to the expected destination. But here he was, twenty-seven years old and an active escort at BigHit, five years into service and creating a title for himself in the industry.

He is Min Yoongi, AgustD, Gloss, or ‘Suga’, the ‘diamond digger’.

A gold digger was too weak a label to describe him – he didn’t settle for measly high-class kids or middle-aged men with money in their savings accounts. No, Min Yoongi loved the taste of money, and that sensation of swimming in a pool of paper currency. He snatched the million won deals; ones those typical escorts were too hesitant to accept due to the sheer risks and mysteries that surrounded the job.

Now, it wasn’t as if the million won was all in his possession – but a fair percentage of it was, and it was sufficient for him.

The driver halts in front of his apartment, and he drags his sore feet to the second floor, where his room is. He isn’t home much, because his clients often ask him to sleep with them – not in the sexual sense of the word, but just literally sleep with them, to make the relationship appear more convincing. He’s slept on satin sheets, soft mattresses, and sheep wool blankets, but nothing beats his cheap, Dongdae-moon bed sheets and thick cotton blanket on his bed.

_Fuck, I need a shower. And then coffee, and then some TV. _He marches to the shower stall, ripping off his sweaty dress shirt and blazer, his icky suit pants clinging to his skin. He rubs at the lipstick stain until his pale skin turns burning red, and applies a large amount of soap to his scrubber to remove the disgusting perfume’s fragrance.

He brews a cup of coffee afterward and switches to JTBC’s channel for the news updates. There’s a headline about the scandal of Samsung’s heir, and a speculation story about a celebrity and her boyfriend in veils. _All these aristocrats_, he thinks, _so many first-world problems on their hands. _

** _“We now focus on one particular rumor that has captured our attention: the Park Corporation’s party that is being held next month, April 10th. The Parks have a tradition of always publicly displaying their parties, and they always showcase something striking every year. I wonder what they have in line for this year…” _ **

** **

The Parks have indeed left a very lasting impression every year – even Yoongi remembers the viral live where Park Jimin, the only heir to the Parks’ throne had confidently kissed his best friend, Kim Taehyung, in front of thirty flashing cameras and announced that he was gay to the rest of the world, and wasn’t planning on inheriting the family business. And the Parks, in their true Park fashion, had shrugged off the entire ordeal as a part of ‘parenting’ and ‘raising a child’. The media was explosive for weeks, as Dispatch uncovered numerous photos and interrupted date scenes that consisted of Park Jimin with some other man, strolling past the Han River or on a hiking trip.

Yoongi wishes he could live that freely, just once.

_Keep dreaming, _he reprimands inwardly, and snuggles into the leather of his couch, his damp hair slippery against the cushions as his lids fluttered shut. _Keep dreaming, Suga. _

A break from work is heavenly, but also unnerving.

He doesn’t particularly savor the accompaniment of people, but as the nature of his occupation came along with humans, he never had a choice in the matter. Undisturbed mornings were scarce, his alarm not ringing or his client shaking him up from his nap to alert him from some last-minute impromptu emergency.

He wastes the afternoon by sleeping until two-thirty on the couch, which was a horrendous idea because he wakes with the worst bedhead in ages and hints of a fever. Swallowing a pill of Tylenol, he shuffles through the living room of his apartment with the television on, meaningless noise filling the background. He stares at his phone screen every now and then, waiting for Namjoon to text him the time for dinner. In all honesty, it’s kind of pathetic, because he doesn’t remember what he used to do during his free time, when he was younger. Probably studying, something academic-related.

Namjoon texts him around five, messaging that they should meet around seven at the lamb skewers diner. He departs his apartment exit at six, with loose trousers and a black-sleeved shirt – his casual wear, a stark contrast from his suit and tie at the company. It almost feels foreign – this is most likely what you’d call the ethic of a workaholic.

He arrives first because the diner’s only ten minutes from his home. The lady at the counter that recognizes him pesters him about Namjoon, whether he has gotten a girlfriend, what he has been up to for the past few days, and if he’s into university students that major in business. Yoongi politely answers all her questions, only because she cooks and serves them the best lamb skewers in town. He orders when Namjoon says that he’s ten minutes from the diner.

“Hey, hyung,” Namjoon greets breathlessly, still in his formal attire. “Did you wait long?”

“No. I ordered already.”

“With the egg?”

“A given.”

“This is why you’re my favorite eating buddy.” He sweeps his lilac hair aside – Namjoon’s one of the few people that Yoongi has ever seen pull off _lilac _as a hair color, and he’s truly fascinated at how many eccentric shades the man looks hot in. He was certain that moss green could never suit anyone, but there was Namjoon, blowing his expectations. And now, lilac. “I just really needed some lamb skewers. How’s your day off?”

“Boring.” Yoongi pops in a piece of kimchi into his mouth, “Uneventful.”

“So ungrateful.” Namjoon teases, “And here, I’ve been running my ass off.”

“Right, your special assignment?”

The younger grumbles, leaning back on his chair, “You know the drill. They told me to select between three portfolios, so I did. They were all not of my preference, but it’s not like I have the privilege of refreshing the portfolios yet. One was a forty-year-old man – his wife had an affair, with another woman. The usual revenge drama thing. The other one was an elementary school teacher; her parents are nagging her about a boyfriend, so she wants a fake one, you know that routine.”

“I’m presuming you selected the last one.”

“Mainly because the last time I accepted a fake boyfriend job, I was punched in the jaw by the girl’s uncle, hollering that I wasn’t worthy of her love. Seriously, overprotective relatives are worse than the parents.” Namjoon pours himself a cup of soju. “The last dude is apparently some dance instructor-slash-secretary. From a wealthy family background, high-class. Name is Jung Hoseok, and we’re the same age. Kinda cute, not my type though.”

“Huh, okay,” Yoongi processes the information as a platter of lamb skewers is set on their table. “What did he want?”

“It’s a prank for his best friends. A birthday prank, whatever. I’m supposed to go to this guy’s birthday party with him, act all lovey-dovey, trick his friends into thinking that we’re actually dating and then reveal at the end that it was all a hoax.” Pause, “It was a 750,000 deal.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, I guess they really have cash to trash.” The escort chugs a shot into his mouth rapidly, “But he sounds like a nice guy. I went to meet him today, got his basic profile, gave him mine, all that. He was really bubbly, sunshine and sunflowers, in the really gay-radiant mannerism. I don’t think it’s going to be too bad. The party’s tomorrow – I’ll tell you how it goes.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

And then the topic of work and escorts flies from the table, and they resume into a rhythm of eat, chatter, eat, and chatter. It wasn’t rare for two escorts to befriend each other and develop a proximate relationship – it was difficult to not do so, on the contrary. In a world where they had to use a fake name, discard their identity and become someone else and then another in the span of hours – there had to be at least one other individual that understood and sympathized. Yoongi and Namjoon were one pair, P.O. and Mino another, and Baekhyun and Chanyeol were also close – romantically – but close. They grew contiguous, and a bond that wasn’t quite a friendship but also neither love nor affection had blossomed.

“Are you going to take another diamond spoon?” Namjoon inquires after they pay the check, splitting the cost in half per usual. “I’d suggest taking an interim after ones like Han Heejoo, but it’s up to you.” The lady winks at them as she brings a tray with two paper cups of instant coffee, murmuring, ‘on the house’. “I didn’t think I’d ever accept a golden spoon after all these years, but here I am.”

“Interims are for babies.” Running a thin finger through his mint locks, Yoongi smiles coyly behind his cup, “Tell me how the party goes, you promised. I’m anticipating details about rich brats getting their asses whooped and drunk. Always a refresher, marvelous comedy.”

“You’re such an asshole, hyung.”

“I know.”

***

Kim Namjoon wants to commit suicide.

That urge is nothing unheard of in this field – death is a mesmerizing option compared to the muddle that tags along with his career description. Unfortunately, Namjoon is an individual with dreams and passions to pursue, and he cannot afford to buckle his knees right now. He’s been at this for five years, along with Yoongi, a fellow coworker and colleague – it’s about time that he adjusts to the atmosphere.

This technically isn’t even the worst-case scenario – things could’ve gone downhill faster, with much more destructive outcomes. He was once ordered to act as a parent of a 4-year-old for their elementary school entrance ceremony (what kind of parents in their right mind would solicit an escort for that, Namjoon doesn’t comprehend), and had to comfort an inconsolable child for sixteen hours in his arms that for some reason possessed an inexplicable phobia of ice cream.

That doesn’t mean he favored being stuck in _this_ sort of circumstance.

“Hey, you alright?”

A man with gelled auburn hair and an oval-shaped face cranes his head towards Namjoon, his eyes round and cheekbones defined. The escort scrutinizes his partner-and-client for a terse second – his royal purple trench coat, silk button-down, and indigo leather pants, black ankle boots, with maroon Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses adorned with the signature of ‘J-Hope’ on the side in crystal studs. His silver bracelets twinkle and glimmer under the chandelier above them, and Namjoon reaffirms the reason _why _he hasn’t taken any duties relevant to ‘golden’ or ‘diamond’ spoons, unlike Yoongi. He feels so extraneous to the situation, in his standard all-black tuxedo and polyester black dress shirt, black loafers, and his 7,000-won Seodae-moon market earrings made of glass. Despite his flamboyant image and wild hair, Namjoon doesn’t like being out of place, in a horde of people that could cover his monthly rent by taking off their jacket.

But of course, an escort’s priority was to ensure that the client was satisfied at all seconds while they were present, and Namjoon can’t permit his distress to ooze. He grins gently and intertwines his fingers with Hoseok’s. “Yeah, of course. I zoned out, I apologize.”

“It’s fine, that happens. The party’s in Hall F. You remember our cover?”

Namjoon slowly recites the tale that Hoseok had creatively crafted yesterday afternoon. “We met at a club in Gangnam, and I fell in love with your dancing. We had a one-night stand, but the sex was too good and we decided to give it another round. The cycle continues, until we harbor feelings for one another and I ask you out.” It’s like a rip-off of some teenage-romance novel, just very R-rated and sexual in Namjoon’s opinion, but according to Hoseok, his best friends were the most gullible people on the planet.

“Right,” Hoseok nods, “And how many days since we’ve dated?”

“Sixty-four.”

“Your memory is ridiculous, I almost forgot myself. I’ll trust you to recall everything else important, then! Oh, right, is there anything else I should be careful of, other than what’s written on the… what, the Bold page?” Hoseok pulls him into an elevator that is painted gold, and everything is so bright that it blinds his poor eyes. “I’ve never hired an escort before, so I’m kind of stupid when it comes to this stuff.”

Namjoon shakes his head, as he stares the red digital numbers change as they travel upward. “No, that should be fine. There’d be additional cautionary clauses if I were in the S-ward, but I’m not, so.”

“S-ward?”

“It’s just a very tame name for ‘Sex-included’. Some escorts are tolerant of sexual intercourse with their clients, and some aren’t. They fill out a worksheet for what they’re comfortable with doing and what they’re not, and that gets a little more complicated than the ordinary procedure that we conducted. Nothing you should be concerned about.” In truth, Namjoon isn’t too knowledgeable when it comes to the S-ward, as he’s never chosen to be a member. Yoongi was previously, but he didn’t share much about his experience. “But anyway, it’s fine as long as you don’t breach the content of the Bold page.”

Hoseok hums as he guides them both towards a tall, august hall – all rich blue, turquoise, and shimmering violet. Namjoon is convinced that the curtains are the lengthiest curtains he’s ever witnessed in his lifetime, and there’s a fucking mural of the Chinese deities on the walls. It feels like the doorstep of some imperial palace of the Tang dynasty.

“You ready?” The dancer beams like the sun, and Namjoon feels his heart drop, and not in the suspenseful, thrilling way. “One, two, three… and we’re in!”

The first thing that strikes him is that there aren’t as many people swarming the room as he expected – maybe around twenty, mostly guys but there are some notable girls with gowns in between. There’s Big Bang’s _Fantastic Baby _in the background, with around five guys dancing with Kloud beer bottles in their hands, and some girls with rainbow-themed hair colors circling them – there’s also the most obnoxious shiny disco ball on the ceiling, but it seems pretty expensive so Namjoon doesn’t question its existence.

“Hey, Hope, you’re pretty late!” A handsome guy with thick lips and a very, very, familiar smile jumps in, and fist-bumps Hoseok. Namjoon swears on his ancestor’s name that he’s seen the guy somewhere. “And who might this dude be?”

Hoseok nudges Namjoon, and Namjoon clicks into work mode. He naturally wrings his arm around his client’s hip, which is very lean and sturdy, to his surprise – and draws their bodies together. With an easy smile, he introduces, “Nice to meet you, my name is RM. I don’t think Seokie really mentions me, based on your reaction.”

“Well,” Hoseok’s voice is laden with honey, “I wanted to keep my hot boyfriend a secret, I’m sure you’d understand.” He laces his fingers over the hem of Namjoon’s dress shirt, and he isn’t quite persuaded that this is Hoseok’s first time initiating such a prank.

The friend, on the other hand, gapes and snaps his jaw. “What- what the holy _fuck, _man you’ve never notified any of us that you scored such a cute- _Minseok, _you gotta see this, oh my god –“ Namjoon melts into the crazed ambiance of the room, acclimating quickly to the mood. The divided attention concentrates on the new ‘couple’, and Hoseok’s friends gather around to poke their curious heads about. Namjoon can’t help but remark that all the faces in the party look so incredibly familiar – especially the one with pink cotton candy hair in the corner.

“What’s this, what’s this?”

And _behold_, Namjoon’s mind rings in alarm, the most surreal human beings on Earth.

There are three men, and he’s not even going to lie, they all look like fairies and Greek gods and everything within and out of that boundary. It’s not even about the wealth and luxury anymore, Namjoon just feels so _foreign_ in comparison. The one that enraptures his sight is the man in the leftmost of the group, his hair neatly styled and natural brown, his nose sharp and eyes rotund, his lips pink and glowing with lip gloss. His outfit is the least extravagant, with a deep ocean blue suit and clean silver cufflinks, but it’s the prim and proper getup that attracts his view.

“Hey, baby, mind introducing yourself again?” Hoseok pecks him on the cheek, and Namjoon chuckles and massages the man’s shoulder reassuringly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you – my name is RM, and I’m Jung Hoseok’s boyfriend.”

“And here I thought that’d be a pipe dream,” The boy in the center, considerably younger than Namjoon, giggles. “Can’t believe you actually scored a cute one, hyung. And hi, my name’s Kim Taehyung – you can call me whatever.”

_Kim Taehyung. _

And it all dawns upon Namjoon – Kim Taehyung and the Park Corporation’s Park Jimin, kissing at the annual party at the Park’s residence, with that coming out fiasco. This was Kim Collective’s Kim Taehyung, an outstanding fashion model and icon of Gucci, the national heartthrob and ‘The Most Handsome Man of 2017’, standing in person. He gulps and wears a poker face, doing best to not appear phased.

The cotton candy pink dude laughs heartily next to Kim Taehyung, “My name’s Park Jimin! I can’t believe you fell for Hoseokie-hyung, what’s so great about him? He snores, he smells, and he’s a neat-freak.”

“The heck, Park Jimin, I do _not _snore and I do _not _smell.”

“I think he’s beautiful,” Namjoon gazes down lovingly, and Hoseok’s crescent eyes crinkle happily.

“Aw, babe, I love you too.”

Taehyung gags behind them.

There’s a high-pitched snigger, and it’s the ocean blue tux guy. “I never thought I’d see the day – I’m Kim Seokjin, by the way.” He extends a hand, and Namjoon reluctantly grabs it, shaking it in his grasp. “I’m Taehyung’s brother. Don’t look much alike, do we?”

That’s not quite the truth – an evident similarity was that they were both attractive as heck, but Namjoon can’t point that out. “I’m sure you’re both great people – Seokie brings you up pretty often in our conversations.” Hoseok has actually informed him nothing about his acquaintances or best friends, but translucent phrases always do the trick.

“Hoseok hasn’t dated since his last boyfriend in middle school – kind of pathetic.” Someone in the crowd mocks, “Are you sure you don’t have a daddy kink or something? Sugardaddy, sugarbaby?”

_That’s actually pretty accurate, _“You _did _seduce me with a Blow Job in your hand when we met at the club, didn’t you babe?”

“Like any proper man should.”

Laughter erupts in the hall, and Namjoon plays everything off suavely, drinking the glass of wine handed to him very slowly, deliberate in his moves. He leaves Yoongi an update, snapping a picture of the drunken scene, in which Yoongi responds with a short, ‘welcome to a diamond digger’s life’. It fascinates him truly, how Yoongi can manage to be entangled in such a mess contrary to his lethargic and aloof personality. Namjoon preferred to be just with his client, resolving a trivial problem or dilemma for them.

** **

** _Namjoon_ **

_It’s not as fun as you think_

** _Yoongi_ **

_I never said it was gonna be fun_

** _Namjoon_ **

_Cruel_

He tucks his phone back into his pocket and observes the dizzying hall. Jackson and Minseok, the birthday boy, Namjoon quickly learned, were dancing in the corner with very suggestive poses, Jackson’s hand tracing the jawline of Minseok. It’s peculiar, because the song on the speaker is some poppy girl group hit that doesn’t fit their sticky atmosphere. There’s another guy sprawled over a table, his drool saturating the cloth and an orange-brown stain that eerily resembles vomit on his neon green jacket. Jimin, Taehyung, and Hoseok are snorting to the beat of the music, and it mystifies Namjoon – but then again, he never sympathized with the aristocrats.

“How’s your evening faring?”

His spine almost cracks as he straightens his back abruptly, and to his right, there sits Kim Seokjin, perfectly sober. “You’re… Seokjin-ssi, right?” He has astounding echoic memory and iconic memory so he knows that he is in fact, Seokjin – but he asks for the effect. “Insane, but it’s great. Seokie and I never really attend parties, just the two of us.”

“Hm,” Seokjin acknowledges, fiddling with the tablecloth underneath. “And you’re RM-ssi? Not your given name, is it?”

“No, a stage name,” He admits – escorts were to maintain their pretense. “I don’t really refer to my given name as often. RM’s more close to home for me.” The only person that ever addresses him as ‘Kim Namjoon’ nowadays is Yoongi, especially after he graduated from university. It’s a soothing reminder of his raw identity, in contrast to RM, his escort name, that drifted from boyfriend to father, teacher to husband, fiancé to one-night stand. “Sorry, is it irritating?”

The Kim chortles and waves a hand dismissively, “No, of course not. I was just ascertaining the fact, because Hoseokie runs by J-Hope at his academy too. Do you dance?” Seokjin’s lips curve northward just slightly, and it’s sufficient to spark a dead flame in Namjoon’s heart. The man had his charms – and it was magical.

“Nah, I’m the most mortifying dancer on the surface of this planet. Seokie’s at least an infinite number of times better than my sorry form.”

“I’m sure you’re not _that _terrible,” Seokjin raises a brow, in which Namjoon challenges with a smug grin. “Wait, no, I’m not going to bet on that. You might just be that terrible.”

“I’m glad that you trust my statement.”

A woman dressed in a uniform walks over with a platter of food and a cart of cocktails, and Seokjin picks up a glass and a plate of tenderloin steak soaked in barbeque sauce. If Namjoon is correct, that is exactly the sixth plate of meat the man has consumed in the span of two hours, along with five glasses of wine and cocktails – and it’s a bit worrying. Not that he’s been staring at Seokjin this entire time, he just holds a keen attention for details. “I was thinking,” the other muffles through the tenderloin in his mouth, “why Seokie hasn’t brought you up even once. He’s not the type to keep secrets in a locked box. He’s the Pandora type.”

Namjoon’s insides churn at the query. He’s not Yoongi – proficiency in acting is in the job requirements, but it’s not Namjoon’s forte. “I know, I was surprised too. I never warned him that he should, I guess he just chose to do so. It’s a rather casual relationship, anyway.”

“Casual,” Seokjin reiterates, and emanates an ominous sensation, albeit the fact that he’s actively chewing off a steak. “Hoseokie was never the kind for casual, but I guess characteristics are bound to transform after numerous years of a non-dating status.”

“I’m not the kind for casual, either,” That, actually, is true. Namjoon doesn’t remember the last time he’s slept with someone, or even went on a real date that didn’t involve him being paid for it. The company had a strict rule for no dating, but it wasn’t like anyone ever adhered to that policy – Baekhyun and Chanyeol flirted shamelessly in the conference rooms, and Namjoon even stormed into the janitor’s closet for a broom, only to see Chanyeol’s dick in Baekhyun’s puckered mouth. That was only possible because the pair could ignore their occupation and sustain their relationship, though – Namjoon couldn’t do that. He couldn’t imagine having a boyfriend, and then continuing his work like nothing ever happened. “I guess we’ll just see where the current brings us.”

“Poetic.”

“I hear that frequently.”

Seokjin then casts a very long, piercing gaze, his mouth still full of steak and alcohol, but deep in thought. “You’re interesting.” Before Namjoon can deduce the significance of that remark, the man juts his chin at Hoseok. “I think your boyfriend needs you right now. Hoseokie can’t hold his liquor – you know that, don’t you?”

There’s something that lines Seokjin’s question, something akin to suspicion, skepticism, and guarded intrigue. Namjoon believes that he hasn’t committed any major errors that disclosed his identity, but Kim Seokjin is all hues and opaque veils. “… Sure, of course. I’ll see you around.” He rushes over to Hoseok, who’s tripping over his own feet, his maroon sunglasses hooked onto the collar of his shirt. It’s a pain when one’s client is drunk – it was the escort’s responsibility to ensure their safety.

Hoseok whines and calls him ‘Monnie’, which is stimulating and a tad bit cringe-worthy. “I need a kiss to recover,” He demands, and RM swiftly twists his head and pulls them in for a chaste kiss – Hoseok tastes like Bloody Mary and mustard, which isn’t the best combination. Maybe tenderloin steak and pink cocktails could’ve been better.

Then, Hoseok hushes, “You can leave now, by the way. I’m gonna tell ‘em in a sec. You were excellent, it was sagacious on my part to contact BigHit.” He pauses for a while, and then smirks slyly, “Although, I think you might’ve been _too _telltale in your interest for Jin-hyung. That’s alright.” He kisses Namjoon on the cheek, and then a exclaims a little loudly, “I love you, babe. You’re heading home, aren’t you?”

_Might’ve been too telltale in your interest for Jin-hyung, _“Y-yeah, I- uh, yeah.” He falters at the attack – “I’ve got a morning shift tomorrow.”

“No worries, we’ll call tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sure, Seokie. I love you, have an amazing night.”

“You too, Monnie.”

He bids farewell to the remainder of the group that is still conscious and exits the hall. He waits, waits a little more, until there’s an explosion of noise and banter that overwhelms the bopping beat of _Sorry Sorry_ – _“Hoseok, what the fuck,” “Hoseok, how could you even –“ “You hired someone? Dude, how desperate were you –“ “So who actually was the guy –“ “BigHit Escort- what?” “So RM isn’t his real name?” “You kissed a fucking escort like there was no tomorrow?”_

Namjoon sucks in a stale breath and gradually slips down the corridor.

_BigHit Escort Services, RM, at your service. It was nice to meet you. _


	2. Kim "Diamond Spoon" Taehyung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kim Taehyung meets the man of his dreams.

“I still can’t believe he hired an _escort._”

_Clink, clank, _“Really? I thought something was off, but I mean – something’s always off about Seokie-hyung.”

“An _escort, _Tae,” Park Jimin, sole heir to the throne of the Parks, whines as he lounges on Kim Taehyung’s heart-shaped velvet couch, wearing his pink pajamas and puppy head slippers. “I’ve literally only seen them on the SBS or MBC news headlines, with those underground stories of drug trade, affairs, and- _you know. _Not judging, but Hoseok-hyung’s courage awes me.”

Taehyung briefly recalls the face of the escort from yesterday – RM – he was pretty cute, with dimples that’d blossom when he smiled, his voice serene and deep, while glowing with this ‘intellectual’ vibe. “He didn’t seem so bad. Bland sense of fashion with lilac hair, but it suited him.”

Jimin sports a pensive expression. “I suppose so. He _was _pretty cute. Should’ve known he’s not Hoseok’s type, though.”

_Not Hoseok’s type, maybe, _the fleeting twitch on his brother’s face last night crosses Taehyung’s mind, and how the elder had initiated a friendly conversation with RM. His brother was a sociable person, but he had the tendency to fall back into the sidelines in a party. The… escort, seemed pretty similar, but Taehyung couldn’t be too certain. “He said that he was from BigHit Escort Services, right?”

“Yeah,” Jimin fumbles with a yellow sticky note in his hand. “I got their contact information from hyung, just in case. Apparently, they’re not an ordinary escort house that people normally think of – Seokie-hyung told me how RM had a job to babysit a 4-year-old once as his father.” Taehyung snorts at the mental image – but RM seems like he’d be good with kids. There was a very paternal aura that emitted from him, past his mask of the unknown. He strolls over to the refrigerator, and grabs a carton of milk and a cereal box.

“Breakfast, Jiminie?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Okay, then.” He returns to the living room and plops down on the marble floor, putting his some-expensive-brand bowl on the ovular table in front of his couch, and dumping the remains of the cereal into it. “You’re going to call them? I won’t stop you, it’ll be pretty hilarious.”

Jimin kicks his back from the cushions that he’s slouching over. “I’m not going to _call _them, it’s for reference! I’m just running out of ideas for surprises in our family parties.” Taehyung wants to remark that technically, the Parks’ family parties never had the need for surprises, and Jimin just did it because it enlivened the solemn atmosphere – but doesn’t. “I mean, we kissed last year, so everyone pretty much knows that we’re gay.”

“That _you’re _gay.”

“You’re as not-straight as a pretzel, Tae, don’t even deny it.”

“_I’m_\- I like _everyone, _it’s different!” He protests, but Jimin has digressed from the topic, as he peers into the sticky note and shovels out his phone between the anime-cover pillows. “It’s different,” Grumbles Taehyung as he swallows a mouthful of soggy cereal. Jimin ignores him pointedly, and then goes, ‘aha’.

“Found it, their homepage. They’re not even moderately discreet about it, this is so funny. Okay, I’ll read their slogan for you: _To_ _serve to pleasure is the utmost delicacy. _Damn, look at ‘em go.” His best friend sounds utterly fascinated by his new discovery, and Taehyung just wants a moment to savor his cereal. Breakfast was the best meal of the day, and he didn’t need a Jimin intervening with his random indulgences. “You know, apparently, if you sign up and utilize their services for a year for a number of requests, you can become a VIP member. And when you become a VIP member… wait, I can’t find the list- never mind, it’s here. The number one privilege of a VIP member is that they can choose their escort.”

Taehyung raises his head from his half-finished bowl. “Isn’t that normally how it should work?”

“Not for them, I guess. I have no clue how the procedure follows. There _are _some escort profiles – wanna look?” Jimin offers his phone to Taehyung, in which the latter glumly scrolls through. The profiles are all high-resolution images of the escorts, obviously random and just there for sampling purposes. They all have awkward codenames, or aliases, whatever – _Kai, N, Key, Leo – _they all resemble some anime character that Taehyung swears that he’s seen at least once. “They’re all really hot, and I really like that N, whoever he is.”

“Of course this N is your type,” Taehyung rolls his eyes – _Name: N, Height: 181cm, Ward: S, Greetings: Hello, my name is N. _Jimin pouts and whines, ‘what do you mean ‘of course’, I’m not that obvious!’ and Taehyung merely scrolls down the page further. He freezes in front of one particular profile, second to the last. The escort had grassy mint hair, snow-white skin, wearing a rather exposing black V-neck, with a small rosy smirk on his lips – _Name: Suga, Height: 174cm, Ward: T, Greetings: Get Lost. _

“Of course this Suga is _your _type.” Jimin snorts in jest, “You were always into the pretty types.”

“’m not,” He weakly argues, but he has to admit that he _is _a little gone for whoever this Suga is. It feels a little dirty, like he’s that sixteen-year-old again, browsing through PornHub and random porn sites and skimming past the extensive list of porn stars. _Gay, _porn stars. Were escorts porn stars? _Nah, probably not. _“Can we just watch TV now?” Rummaging through his sofa cushions for a remote, Taehyung tosses Jimin’s phone back.

“You’re no fun, Taetae.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” The channel settles on SBS, and there’s _Running Man _on. “C’mon, Jimmie. Stop watching porn and give me attention.”

Jimin huffs but drops his phone. “How old are you, watching _Running Man?” _

“Rude, don’t you see that 12-year-olds have to watch it with parental guidance?”

“Okay, sure.” Jimin drawls, but quiets down as the program runs. It’s not too entertaining, just the occasional laughter as one of the panels bursts a dad joke. Jimin eventually receives a call from his brother, urging him to assist him with the preparations for the upcoming party, and his best friend groans exasperatedly, changing out from his pajamas and into his tux from yesterday night. He fixes the crooked angle of Jimin’s tie, as the latter slips into his loafers. “I’ll call you later, Tae. Don’t watch gay porn while I’m gone, you hear me? You’ll be addicted!”

“I’m not you, Minnie,” With a deadpan face, he shoos his friend away from the door – “Jungkook, make sure he reaches the car safely.”

At that very second, a tall – taller than the two of them – brunette trudges out to stand behind Jimin, his stature lean and muscular, body finely toned and hair neatly trimmed, dressed as a bodyguard. “After you, Jimin-ssi.”

The Park sweeps his bangs and grouses, “I _told_ you to drop the suffix when we were together, Kookie. Just call me hyung, for goodness sake.”

Taehyung wants to explode at Jungkook’s steely expression – his bodyguard was so tense around Jimin. Jeon Jungkook had always been the most serious kid he’d known, cutting edge and down-to-earth, with either two emotions: vexation and boredom. He’s the kind that Jimin struggles to befriend the most, genuinely hard to crack and so detached. Only Taehyung, who had been acquainted with Jungkook for the better ten years of his life, had the vaguest idea of what his dear bodyguard could be thinking.

“Jimin-_ssi_,” Jungkook articulates, and Jimin falls visibly. “I’ll guide you to your car.”

“You’re such an asshole,” The hyung-wannabe scrunches his nose, as Jungkook strides down the corridor of the apartment behind him. Jungkook took his task very earnestly, definitely the best. _Too _good sometimes, but Taehyung could understand where his passion and determination came from.

Jungkook appears again after twenty minutes, his bunny complexion weathered down, as he loosens his tie. “I can’t manage him,” He murmurs, “He’s too touchy, hyung. Too affectionate and sentimental about every little thing.”

“And you already knew that.”

“Of course I did, I just can’t grow accustomed.”

Taehyung giggles as Jungkook slumps over his couch, where Jimin previously sat. “You find him cute, though. I saw you gulp when he got frustrated at you, Kook-ah. I know you like riling up Jimin – and you claim that you don’t have a crush on him, it’s ridiculous.”

“Because I don’t, hyung.”

“Uh huh.”

“I _don’t._”

Jungkook and Jimin had first met three years ago, when Jungkook officially became the Kim family’s personal bodyguard and Taehyung’s secretary. They had a connection long before that, ever since the Kims had realized the boy’s talent for music and painting and supported him with a full scholarship for Jungkook’s early acceptance into Seoul University’s Music Department. Jungkook refused however, and altered his route to martial arts and training instead. It struck Taehyung as quite the surprise, because he always imaged Jeon Jungkook with his own gallery, or Jeon Jungkook wielding the violin or piano, whipping out his angelic voice in front of a crowd – but there he was, his knuckles scabbed and his posture ramrod straight, at Taehyung’s doorstep when he returned home after his lectures.

Jimin desired to converse with the younger as much as possible, elated to see a new member join the Kim-brothers-and-Jimin gang, with the presence of Hoseok every once in a while. But Jungkook was anything but friendly, his jaw clenched and knees tightened, feet slightly parted, with his ‘_good morning, Jimin-ssi’_. And Jimin couldn’t bear it – he despised formalities, unless it was absolutely essential to the interaction. Jungkook didn’t remedy the situation, however, and it was a year later until Taehyung caught on that Jungkook was simply doing that to rouse Jimin.

Adorable, really.

“You can dream on, Kook,” Taehyung hums as he washes his cereal bowl, “You two are so awkward around each other that I just want to lock you up in my closet sometimes.”

“I’ll break out.” Jungkook replies as he stretches his legs on the sofa – Taehyung often doubted who the actual owner of this apartment was.

“I know you would, and that’s precisely why I don’t do it.”

“I heard you two chat about escorts, by the way. Are you doing something that you shouldn’t be, hyung?” Jungkook quirks a mistrustful brow, “Not that I’m bothered, but if things get out of hand, it’s my obligation to inform Jin-hyung.”

“You were _eavesdropping?_”

“It’s in my job description.”

“No, actually, I’m pretty damn certain that it isn’t.”

“I don’t think you’re a personal family bodyguard and a secretary simultaneously.”

Taehyung sucks in a deep breath. “You’re such an asshole. I don’t know why I even cling to this friendship.”

“You love me.”

“I do, you son of a bitch.” He rinses his palms and scrubs them off with a towel. “It’s not what you’re thinking, probably. Hobi-hyung brought his boyfriend to Minseok’s party yesterday,”

“Hoseok-hyung has a _boyfriend?_”

“That’s the thing, he doesn’t. I mean, he introduced him as his boyfriend, though – the name was RM, lilac hair and standard suit. Mono-lids but the attractive kind, and sweet dimples – he has a way with speech, too, it’s been a millennium since I’ve perceived someone as verbally _hot, _you know?” Jungkook muffles a ‘hm’, “Well, turns out, he’s an escort hired from BigHit… Escort Services? I guess the acting nature is in their blood, I wouldn’t have known if Hobi never told us.”

“And you’re intrigued?”

“No,” He snaps his jaw as the fleeting high-resolution profile photo of Suga flies past the back of his mind, the man’s hair holding an endearing semblance to a national park and the ocean in one, both Taehyung’s favorite places. There was something so… _entrancing _about his aura, all rough but soft, closed but open. His greeting wasn’t welcoming at all, but there was that cocky smirk, taunting, ‘_Try me if you can’, _and it lit a flame in Taehyung. “No, of course not.”

Jungkook’s flattened lips twitch – the boy’s known him for too long. “I’ll trust your judgment, hyung.” He then glances downward at his watch, “Seokjin-hyung asked me to run an errand for him at one, so I’ll be going. Call me if you need anything, and I’ll give you a ride if you need it.”

“To where?”

“BigHit Escort Services.”

“_Get lost, _Jungkook.”

_‘Get Lost.’_

***

“I’m not accepting a mission like that _ever _again.”

Yoongi is sympathetic, as Namjoon now lies on his floor with the hairstyle of a madman. His best friend had just completed his rant about diamond spoons, about how _overdone _and how unnecessarily exorbitant the prices of their luxury brands were, ‘_I found out that the champagne I accidentally spilled on his shirt was a fucking Dom Perignon Rose, and that his shirt cost thrice of that single glass’, _and, ‘_I don’t know, I think I may have knocked over a wine glass and pretended that it never happened, and that wine glass can probably cover ten years’ worth of my rent’. _While Yoongi loved diamond-spoon missions along with many others because they received a larger portion than the average fake-date task, there were those like Namjoon, nauseous to mingle with a crowd they didn’t belong in. Yoongi and Namjoon’s work ethic and style were always on opposite poles, and the former respected that – as Namjoon respected his adoration and toxic relationship with money.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” He brews a cup of coffee for his companion, as Namjoon likes it – dark, with one cube of sugar. “At least you drank Dom Perignon, that shit is sick.”

“I don’t have a penchant for alcohol as you do, hyung,” Namjoon is quite a lightweight, that’s true. “And besides, I can’t fully _avoid _assignments of this nature, that’s just what this is. It was just mentally straining, but I mean. It was…” He carefully sets the mug on a tray, and dumps out a jar of cookies on a platter. “There were many celebrities, the mega-names. Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, you know?”

“The kissing public gays?”

“The kissing public gays. And a really… you know, hyung, I always thought I was more asexual than not, but I guess that really isn’t it. Just haven’t met the right people.”

“Oh?” The input piques Yoongi’s interest, as he brings the snacks over to his ragged friend on the floor. Namjoon grabs the mug with a low ‘thanks’. “What, you saw a cute guy?”

“Hm,” There’s a second of held contemplation, “He’s more elegant than cute. Just the… definition of royally handsome, I suppose. Of course, everyone in the room was stunning, I thought. But he just emitted a special… you know, aura.”

“Is Kim Namjoon crushing on someone? Fuck, Jesus must be back.”

Namjoon’s bitter snuffle echoes through his mug, “You’re not even a sliver bit of religious, geez. I wouldn’t do anything that violates the clauses on the Bold Page.”

“There are plenty of us that don’t.”

“Yeah, just like how there are always rebels that violate the code of law, and anarchists that seek for no government. But I think the policies they enforce are wise, hyung – there’s nothing that sprouts from an industry like this.” And Yoongi agrees wholeheartedly – unlike the ‘rebels’, those like N that slept with those that _weren’t _his clients and developed feelings for, only to split up and go on a working spree for a month; the infamous Kim Heechul that had seduced his clients intentionally and _unintentionally _fell for one of them, becoming the legend of BigHit’s S-ward to be the only successful escort to escape with his destined love; Chanyeol and Baekhyun that practically fucked everywhere in the company, that Yoongi wouldn’t be shocked to hear that they fucked during an assignment.

The Bold Page consisted of five very comprehensive but succinct rules, and it was mandatory that all escorts read it and explained it in detail to their clients as well.

One, BigHit Escort Services provides an opportunity for a mutually beneficial _business relationship_, not a romantic relationship.

Two, there must not be any action or suggestion of bribing with monetary or physical incentives that are shared between the client and escort that isn’t outlined in the official documents of the assignment.

Three, the permission of sexual intercourse is limited to escorts of the S-ward.

Four, the escort cannot, in any circumstance, disclose their real given name.

Five, the escort must not hold any romantic attraction for the client. If this is the case, the worst penalty will be expulsion from the company.

So far, nobody had actually been expelled for violating the fifth clause – the furthest was suspension for two weeks and a cut-down on salary, which occurred to Mino about a year ago. Rumors proclaimed that he had dated extensively with the heir to a prestigious mogul, and others attested that they had witnessed the man with another woman – a B-rank celebrity, a gravure magazine model, a foreign model, etc. Yoongi could care less, whether his coworker dated a big-name or not, but it was obviously an enormous issue for BigHit’s reputation.

“You’re boring,” He grunts as Namjoon elbows him in the thigh from his position on the floor. “But I guess we’re the same.”

“Maybe I’ll try when I actually retire from this stupid gimmick of a job,” Combing his fingers through his greasy lilac hair, the other chortles, “I’ve been at this for way too long. _We’ve _been at this for way too long.”

“Heechul-sunbae was at nine years when he retired- _bolted_.”

“Heechul-sunbae is a living myth, the heroic epic poems kind. He was a totally different entity in all aspects.” ‘RM’ gulps the remnants of the coffee, “I wonder how he’s doing. He was a nice guy – decent, for someone who’s been at this for nine years.”

“Probably happy with his idol boyfriend,” Yoongi reminisces the time where the article had proliferated at unbelievable speed: _Super Junior Idol Lee Teuk, finds love with Former Escort Kim Heechul! _“I heard Lee Teuk’s solo album last week. There’s this one song dedicated to Heechul-sunbae, named ‘To Cherry’. Pretty good.”

“Cherry, fuck, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.”

“I know – brings back memories.”

And silence – that conveys a muddle of emotions and suppressed dreams.

The ‘clink’ of hardened clay against glass resounds throughout the square living room, as Namjoon presses his nail onto the surface of the table. Words are pointless – Yoongi is painfully aware of what is running through his intelligent brain. He reaches for a box of cigarettes on top of the drawer, “Want a cig?” Namjoon shakes his head. Shrugging, he rises and goes to his balcony, lighting the cigarette between his fingers. The bitter taste of nicotine surges through his lungs and burns his throat, but the familiarity of the sensation eases his nerves. After exhaling the smoke in a cloud, he says, “You’ll be fine, Joon.”

Namjoon had always been smarter than he’d ever been – he knew Socrates, Aristotle, some random Neo-Freudians, and spouted crap that Yoongi couldn’t apprehend seventy-percent of the time. He somehow maintained and adhered to his morals, and had solid standards for himself; he was also incredibly talented, and produced top-tier music. Yoongi was certain he’d achieve success sooner or later, though he was stuck here right now.

“You too, hyung.”

Yoongi guffaws, his cig sliding between his fingers and grazing his skin. “Yeah, okay.”

Maybe the squeeze in his lungs is the truth to that commentary.

“You’re already back?”

“I’ve been gone for more than two days, Kai, it’s a fucking lifetime.”

“I wouldn’t go that far – you’re the most puzzling workaholic I’ve met.”

“I’m not a workaholic.”

“You are,” Kai, 4 years into the T-ward, doesn’t seem to concur. “Suga-sunbae, you’re literally the only escort I know that _still_ has stocked up holidays. You could’ve taken today off; Saturdays have the queerest requests.”

“An expert calligrapher is not picky about his brush,” He answers, organizing his belongings into his black leather briefcase. “Saturday requests are the most lucrative, too.”

Kai laughs aloud, “You were totally bluffing the calligrapher shit, sunbae.”

“I was.” He swiftly looks at the clock, and stands. “I’ll be going.”

“Sure, sunbae. Get those thick yellow bills!”

The Assignment Office is on the second floor, next to their boss’s secretary’s desk, the stern lady with her pencil skirt and red necktie. Yoongi enters his escort ID into the identification machine and steps inside the below-freezing-point office – and there’s Taemin, the Head Escort of the T-ward, with his legs crossed under his classic wooden desk, a bouquet of yellow roses in the corner vase. The male comports his body in that characteristic blood-red tux with a deviant sensation of confidence, grace, and beauty – _he dyed his hair ash brown, _Yoongi notices the new touch. It’s honestly an enigma – how this godly being is four months younger than him.

“Hey, Suga. Enjoyed your extended break?” Taemin shuts his laptop and flashes a thin line of a beam. “I already know what you’re going to say, but let’s hear it.”

“Unproductive.”

“Short and un-fabricated – I like it. I think it’s your charm.” Nodding satisfactorily, the Head Escort scoops down for three portfolios in his third drawer. “I’m presuming you just want to get this over with, though.” The green, blue, and pink files clap in front of him, and Yoongi begins with the green one, in order. “I thought you might like that one,” Taemin is speaking, as he rips out the sheets of paper from the clear file inside. “It’s what you typically do.”

_Kim Soohyun, “_A marriage disruption, I see.” _‘I’m a thirty-year-old male, CEO of Haneul Electronics. I have discovered that my fiancée has cheated on me for another man two days ago, and I want you to storm into the wedding hall before the oath… _“I do enjoy a good wedding breakdown.”

“I know you do.” He picks up the blue one, “That one, I actually think you’d do really well. You’re popular with the forties, aren’t you?” _Kang Donghyun, forty-five. I’m looking for someone that can trick my bed-ridden mother before she passes away from breast cancer, that I actually have someone I want to marry. She can’t really see, so as long as you are somewhat feminine, it should be… _“And you’ve cross-dressed before.”

“True, but,” Pitching the sheets towards the left, he clucks his tongue, “I don’t have a thing for lying to people before they die.”

Taemin shrugs his shoulders, acquiescing. “Fair argument.”

So far, the wedding intrusion is the best option – the suspense and thrill he felt on the first one are still unparalleled by no other, but it was still pretty exciting. He clutches the pink file in his hands, and removes a thin packet from it. “Mark Tuan…” _‘You can call me Mark – not Korean, by the way. Twenty-five, and I need a partner for the Parks’ Annual Party this year! I don’t **need **one, but you know. It’d be great if I can have someone cute to flaunt by my hip ;)’. _“What the fuck?”

“Well, it’ll be an experience, I’ll guarantee that. Nobody gets a free invitation to the Parks’ Annual Party like that. And you wouldn’t say that if you knew how much he offered to pay.”

“How much?”

Taemin grins slowly, “Three million.”

Yoongi’s kidney almost catapults to the ground. “_Three million?_ No risk factors, no skinship required, and _three million_?” ‘The prints don’t lie, Suga’, Taemin assures, and that’s right – there are six zeroes tagged with that ‘three’, and it’s not evaporating into dust anytime soon. Even with sharing the portion with the company, he still kept at least two-point-five million. “Holy shit, yes. I’ll do this one.”

“I wouldn’t expect less from the diamond digger.” Taemin tucks the other two portfolios back into his drawer. “Mark Tuan is all yours.”

“With pleasure.”

“With pleasure, yes.”

As Yoongi learns, Mark Tuan is quite withdrawn – a stark contrast from his ‘;)’ emoji in his portfolio and colorful exterior. He’s handsome, though not the ‘Korean’ kind, with his rose-blond bangs curtaining his forehead and his eyes arched into miniature crescent moons. He caresses the hem of his gray turtleneck as Yoongi stares at him from across their table, in the third meeting room of BigHit.

“So,” Flicking through the folder to re-confirm his role, Yoongi clarifies, “All you want me to do is to behave like a decent partner at the Parks’ mansion, correct?” There’s a nod. “And you didn’t have an alternative? A family friend or relative that was willing to assist you in this?” Not that he had any qualms with it – 3 million was at stake.

“To be honest,” Mark squirms a little, “I was just wondering what it’d be like. My friend, Jung Hoseok- oh, do you know Jung Hoseok? J-Hope, he’s a famous dancer in that area… well, I mean you don’t _have _to know him, but,” _Jung Hoseok – that’s the guy Namjoon had. _“He brought this dude – RM? – as his boyfriend to our friend’s birthday party, and disclosed that he was actually an escort last-minute, and, well. We all got kind of curious; not that many of us have an opportunity to do the same thing, there’s too many dangers.”

“Too many dangers,” He enunciates, “And yet, you’re here.” Again, not his problem – 3 million. He just had fact-checks to do.

“I’m a little unique.” With a nervous outstretch of his lips, Mark juts his chin at his profile, “I’m the third child of the Tuans, and although I _am _the first son in line, my father doesn’t discriminate between gender – he believes it’s an ancient tradition. I’m not the one inheriting his position, _and _the media doesn’t exactly give a shit about the third kid that aspires to become a Taekwondo coach, unlike my friends. I’m special.”

“I see that,” Yoongi examines the details on his piece of paper. “Anything else I need to know, and other final additions? I’m not as lenient as the other escorts here; I stick to what I’m asked to do, I don’t do more, and I don’t do less. If you want something, blast away now.”

The blond compresses his lips into a thin line, and is still. “Can you perhaps conceal the fact that you’re an escort?”

“That’s a necessity that underlies every single job, Mr. Tuan,” Yoongi comments pointedly, “Unless you want me to specifically be someone.”

“Maybe… a friend that studies overseas? I’m an American with Taiwanese descent, so…”

Shit. The most English Yoongi has ever achieved in his life of twenty-seven years is the textbook ‘How are you, I’m fine, thank you (and the bonus of, ‘and you?’)’, and _maybe _SNSD’s _Gee _intro (Hey, listen boy~, my first love story, _ooh oh, oh, ooh oh, oh yeah~_). And most importantly, he _abhorred _conversing with people in foreign languages – he developed a trauma of sorts after his high school Mandarin teacher sneering at him during his presentation about the Qing dynasty.

But then again, 3 million.

“… I can’t do English, but I can try the ‘American that talks with a western-Korean accent’.”

Mark lets out a relieved sigh, “Gosh, thanks. I _do _have less risk on the cliff, but it doesn’t mean I can’t fall, you know? You’re a lifesaver, er, Suga?”

“That’s my name.”

“I’m not… you’re not allowed to tell me your real name, right?”

“No – unless we’re given specified approval for the case.” His client’s soft features twitch, “We have a psychologically-certified reason; don’t feel too attacked. It’s not a discriminatory thing.”

“Oh, like… forming a personal connection when sharing names, kind of?”

“Precisely.” Shuffling through his bundle of paperwork, Yoongi tugs at the one bookmarked in between, and hands it over to Mark. “That’s a guideline that we refer to as the Bold Page. I’m technically supposed to read it to you, but you’re literate, aren’t you? It’s tedious, so you can do it.”

The man skims over the clauses, and nods firmly. “I understand. I’ll meet you on the upcoming 10th, then. Should I pick you up at your apartment?”

“No, I’ll go to yours. We can’t divulge our addresses to clients unless it’s –“

“Given specified approval for the case. Got it.”

The twinge of a smile shows on Yoongi’s cheeks, as he mumbles, “You’re a fast learner, Mr. Tuan. I like you.”

“Yeah, you’re cool. I like you too, Suga-ssi. I think… I think this will be fresh.”

“It’s a positive thing, right?”

“Of course.”

Had he known the outcome, Yoongi would’ve gladly discarded the 3 million.

It’s too late.

***

He would be lying if he declared that he wasn’t obsessed.

He was not _not _obsessed.

He is obsessed.

“Tae, honey?”

_Oh my god._

“Tae?”

_This is borderline addiction. Should I ask Jungkook to schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist? That sounds smart, actually, I can do that. _

“Taehyung!”

“_What_?”

Seokjin furrows his perfect eyebrows, frowning. “Your flowers,” He tilts his head at the potted plants at Taehyung’s feet, “They’re drowning.”

“They’re –“ He senses a pool of coldness on his clothed toes, and his pupils dilate in horror as he sees his daffodils limply gravitating towards the soil, drenched in water. His watering can jangles as it collides with marble, as he shrieks, “No, no, _no! _My babies, holy shit, I’m so sorry…” Whispering to the flower heads, he desperately attempts to bring them back to life by stroking their stems – it’s futile. “My babies,” _These were my favorite daffodils; I’m so sorry, Betty. _

His brother heaves from above, “I warned you, Tae, it’s not my fault.”

“A more violent warning would’ve been ideal, but okay.” _I’m so sorry Theo, Lily, Daphne…_

“I don’t engage in any form of violence.” Seokjin states matter-of-factly, “And we’re ought to be at the Park’s residence by three, Taehyung, we have to depart right now. I’ve been here for thirty minutes, waiting for you to water your garden.” Taehyung pouts, as they both loiter about the greenhouse – Taehyung’s garden. “Just that you’ve been so absorbed in your phone that you’ve ignored my presence and jokes. Do you know how utterly _hurt_ I am?”

Taehyung fetches his watering can and sets it in a soil patch, avoiding his brother’s melodrama. He knew he should’ve dissuaded Seokjin from enrolling in that bewitched theater class in high school.

“What’s grabbing your attention anyway?” With a ‘hmph’, Seokjin peers into Taehyung’s black phone screen. “Is there something we need to discuss, Tae?”

“No.”

“We _evidently_ have something to talk about.”

“Come on, hyung, Jungkook’s probably got the engine started –“

“Jungkook can wait, this is far more enthralling than some yearly ceremonial festivity.”

“Jimin will be snubbed if he heard that.”

“But he _won’t, _because you’re a spectacular brother and you love me. Tae, I swear, I _will _hire a hacker to revive your deleted internet history if you don’t tell what the hell it is you’re watching on that phone –“

“_Escorts!_” He blurts out, _where the heck is my personal privacy in this household, Jesus Christ, _“Jimin taught me that BigHit had a homepage and I’ve been reading the profile of one of their main escorts, okay? That’s it, it’s nothing juicy and it’s _not _gay porn, I keep on telling Gukkie but he doesn’t believe it, goodness.”

Seokjin sports an amused look, his doe eyes rounded and jaw clicking, as he slips his hands into the pockets of his Armani coat. “You, escorts?” ‘Yes’. “Is this because of that… RM? Yes, the RM scandal at Minseok’s birthday clubbing last month? Hoseok said he was from BigHit.”

“It was not my idea,” Deadpan, Taehyung objects, “And I just find him cute, nothing more, nothing less.” He rinses his hands at the sink in the corner of the greenhouse, and pulls on his purple blazer as well. “Is my hair alright? I asked Hoseok to dye it for me.”

Seokjin scrutinizes his new hairdo – straightened, and a royal, cascading red. “It’s… captivating, at the least. You’re like a character in Final Fantasy. Don’t fret, you always look beyond _‘good’, _Tae. Now hurry it and climb into the car – Guk has been in there alone for the past forty minutes.”

“Fine,” Stealing a woeful glimpse at his drenched daffodils, Taehyung stomps out of his garden and secures the lock on the entrance. There’s Seokjin’s Porsche parked a few meters away, Jungkook in the driver’s seat with a dispassionate frown.

“What took you so long?”

“Tae was watching gay porn. Oh, and he killed some of his flowers.”

Jungkook ‘ah’s in understanding, as he steers the wheel to the right. Taehyung is officially too done with this joke to object. Instead, he resumes his activity on BigHit’s homepage – specifically, admiring Suga’s profile picture. The escort only had three photos on his introduction page: one with him casually facing the camera with a crooked smirk, one with him propped over a velvet couch his legs crossed (he was wearing red high heels and that was kind of hot), and the last one being Suga in a very, very loose white button-down, his collarbones shadowing his snow pale skin under the dim lighting, as he bit seductively into the corner of his bottom lip.

_I wonder if this is really how he’s like, _he fancies, _he’s hot in black. Hell, his skin is ridiculously smooth – has to be Photoshop. And how the heck is he so pretty? I mean, the prettiest guy I’ve been acquainted with is Jiminie, but even Jiminie isn’t… this. _He sighs, daydreaming at the images in front of him. It’s not like he has the courage to submit a request – and according to BigHit’s procedures, he can’t even ascertain whether Suga would be the one to accept it. _Has to be him, though, _with a sullen pout on his face, Taehyung drops his phone to his lap.

The ride to the Parks’ residence isn’t lengthy – there are luxurious cars lined up at each parking slot reserved for the guests, and a horde of personal staff members with the Parks grouped around the lot, assisting the esteemed guests with their belongings and parking. Although the Park family’s annual party was meant to be formal, the family’s free and frivolous nature ruined the purpose, as largely represented by Jimin’s yearly antics. Jimin had mentioned something about lying low this year, though, because his little brother, Jihyun, had admonished him regarding his ‘thoughtless, asinine actions’. Jihyun was the official heir to the Parks’ wealth and leverage ever since Jimin had announced worldwide that he was planning to pursue a career in dancing – which Taehyung conceded that it better suited his best friend than a president of some business.

So less chaos this year, perhaps – which is a shame, because nobody dares to admit it aloud, but everyone is expectant of something _groundbreaking _to occur at the annual party.

The three get out of the car and are greeted by a middle-aged man in the gray staff uniform, as Jungkook tosses the keys to another younger male.

“I always come to the Parks’ main house every year, but,” Seokjin scans the mansion – palace – in awe, “This will never grow old, will it?” It’s true; the Parks were extravagant people, and their house radiated with their personality. There’s a Greek-style fountain of three layers (marble statues and all that) with a brick path that circles it, and behind is the massive, beige-white estate that looms over its vicinity. The staircase that leads to the double door entrance of the house is wide, with high pillars standing proudly on opposite sides. His father, Kim Seokhoon, had once chortled at supper, that the cost of the entire Park estate was astronomical – it was a manor of tradition and history, one of the only structures to survive the Japanese invasion due to the mere fact that it was of a Western design.

Jimin is perched on the stairway alone – Taehyung doesn’t miss how he lights up when he spots Jungkook, and how the tux that Jimin is wearing is his favorite velvet blue one, with golden stitches of elaborate patterns that symbolized the Chinese dragon. Jungkook seems to go tense beside him as well, his back ramrod stiff and lips thinned.

“Hey, you guys are late!” Whines Jimin, but there’s no trace of an actual complaint.

“To my defense, Taehyung was the one that was drooling over some escort,” Seokjin says coolly, as Taehyung sputters in protest. “I swear, Hoseok is a terrible influence over my children.”

The pink-haired Park giggles with good humor, and gestures at them to enter. “Hoseokie-hyung is drinking a Red Headed Slut at the bar right now. You could join him if you’d like – the bartender we hired for tonight is Taeyong.”

“Oh, the guy that makes the _best _Sex on My Face?”

“You like that one so much,” Taehyung muses at his brother, who happily trudges over to the bar that is situated on the right-wing of the estate. Jungkook mumbles that he’d stroll around and see if there’s anything that catches his eye, and Jimin also leaves him with an apology – he’s a Park, after all, and he had other important figures to converse with, for his family’s technical reputation.

_What now, _it’s almost as if he’s stranded on a humongous island, swarmed in a sea of people. They’re all familiar faces – ones that he’s met in his own family’s celebratory events before, or political nobilities that Taehyung has seen on campaign posters on the streets. _Oh, I know her too, _there’s an actress that he recognizes loitering about in the center hall, around a gigantic vase of roses. It’s pretty entertaining for a while, with the buffet of delectable dishes, ranging from Japanese fatty tuna sushi to Indian curry, but it quickly becomes rather dull after the third platter of japchae and sixth lobster pasta. He enjoyed partying and all that, but that was normally with his friends – there was 2000’s Korean pop music booming in the background, not some random classical piece by Mozart or Beethoven; it was constantly rowdy and rambunctious, with one of the dudes puking over a perfectly smooth surface, not everyone smiling politely with the ladies all demure and prim in their gowns and men starchy in suits.

He can sense the dread that crawls at the bottom of his heart – Taehyung abhorred boredom, but beyond that, he despised being left alone. It was fine when he was watering or tending to his plants, or admiring the lush green of forests and shimmering blue of oceans from the sky, because then, he wasn’t truly alone. He was engulfed by the tweeting of exotic birds, the rustling of insect wings, and the sloshing of water. In this enormous party hall, however, where each minor subclass group of guests mingled with their typical crowd, Taehyung didn’t fit in anywhere. The Kims were – are – famous, of course, but the public and media were heavily concentrated on his brother, the heir to the throne, and not the second kid that was just there posing in front of cameras occasionally.

Nervous, he chews on his fingernails, as his eyes dart across the vicinity. Was Jungkook going to be done with his business anytime soon? He texts the bodyguard, but the other replies swiftly that he’s in the middle of an important engagement. _Great, fantastic, _he rambles inwardly, and roams about the carpeted hall. There are some males that seem to be around Taehyung’s age near the glass panels of the windows, but he recognizes them from Seokjin’s greeting ceremony at their estate last year – they weren’t the nicest to his brother. The smacking of lips and lustful stares of the girls are not gone unnoticed by him either, which leaves him squirming because he thought that the scandal of him and Jimin kissing last year was all over the news, making it clear that he wasn’t totally straight.

_I’m going to get out of here, _he decides resolutely, and clenches his fists. This place was suffocating, and he was about to die from asphyxiation if he remained in the midst of that tension a second longer. He trudges in a rush out of the mansion through the back double doors, into the private garden of the Parks where he was granted access to years ago. The guard lets him pass with a cursory check of his appearance, fully aware of his identity.

The garden is heavenly, at the least. The Kims, his parents, never comprehended his passion for nature and its elements, and gifted him his personal greenhouse on his fifteenth birthday instead. They never possessed a private garden like the Parks, consequently. There’s nothing too fancy or lavish about it, but the uneven arrangement of oak and pine trees, the bushes of roses and wildflowers – it blends in with the environment so well, and puts Taehyung’s nerves at ease immediately.

“Finally,” _peace. _He slides down against the trunk of an oak tree a few ten meters from the entrance to the garden, and plops down on the bed of moist grass and scattered leaves. The whiff of pine and rain clings in the air, and there must also be a nest of baby birds above, because he can heed muted, hungry chirps. He could stay here until the party wrapped up – his brother was probably entertaining some politician or distant relative in the field at the bar, and Jimin escorting the other guests. When they were all young, in elementary school, they used to construct haphazard fortresses in this garden out of blankets they stole from the master bedrooms of the Parks, and it came to the point where both parents of each household just built them a treehouse to play in.

“The treehouse,” Taehyung whispers aloud, _is it still there? _He drowsily rises on his feet and traverses through the trees. Jimin hadn’t mentioned it being taken down or demolished for any purpose, but it’s been years since any of them stepped foot on the treehouse. They ceased after that one night in the summer of middle school, where Seokjin had been so certain that he saw the draped hair of a woman outside the window. Utterly spooked, none of the trio had bothered to return after that particular incident.

_Oh, wow. _

It’s there.

The rope ladder dangles from the wooden platform, which is less than eight meters high up. Although for kids, the treehouse was big enough for at least two adult-sized men to sit and rest in, and if he recalled correctly, there were even some dry snacks stocked up in a box that was perched on a shelf. Hesitant, he tugs at the rope ladder to ensure that it’s safe, and when assured, he climbs upward. The climb feels a lot shorter than when he was a child, but that most likely accounts to how he’s grown taller and is much more nimble now.

When he’s on the top, he has to pause to examine the condition of the construction. There’s dust on the fences that enwrap the platform, and there are more branches that obstruct the view than he remembers, along with a mess of dead leaves and some poor lifeless insects on the flooring. He crawls over to the door, which is slightly shorter than his height now. His heart thumps wildly in his chest, and he doesn’t even know why – it’s just a childhood thing.

_Okay, you can do this, Kim Taehyung. _He breathes in deeply, and twists the racked doorknob, ancient and unused. The door cracks open with an eerie creak, and he’s not surprised by how everything looks exactly identical as his youthful days, from the “treasure chest” on the side filled with flower petals and their favorite toys and lego sets, to the Transformers lantern that hung from the ceiling. No, he’s not surprised by any of that –

What does surprise him, though, is the presence of an unknown man that is propped next to the windowsill.

He’s beautiful, for the lack of a better word. Taehyung stands awkwardly, his back hunched as his head almost touches the ceiling and the obnoxious lantern. The man’s hair is electric blue, his skin snow white and glowing as he basked under the sunlight. His midnight-black tuxedo isn’t anything strikingly expensive, but _god _did he look gorgeous in it. The cigarette that sits between his pink, plump lips stirs something rather animalistic in him, the spicy tang of the smoke hitting his nostrils.

The person looks about startled as he is, and he speaks, “Uh, sorry- _shit, _I wasn’t supposed to- god, screw it.” His voice is gravelly and tinted with exhaustion and sleepiness, but seductively, if that made any sense. “Is this place yours? If it is, I apologize – I didn’t know, trust me.”

“Oh, uh, no. It’s not… it’s not exactly only mine.” He glimpses at the cigarette, and the trail of smoke that floats from the butt. “Smoking isn’t permitted on the premises, by the way.”

“Ah, really. Shame.” Shoving the cigarette down to the floor, the man extinguishes the flame. He then proceeds to scrutinize Taehyung, “I can fuck off, if that’s what you want. You’re pretty pale right now.”

He descends to the ground as well. “No, it’s fine, you’re perfectly welcome here. Again, not owned by me.” It dawns upon him that he knows this man more than he likes to admit. The slanted eyes, the pinched mouth, the smooth skin that was apparently not photoshop, and the defiant glint. It’s _him. _

“Yeah? Well, my name is Lee Junghyun. A pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s not,” Taehyung blurts out before his sanity can stop him, and that only earns him a confused and rather guarded frown.

“… Pardon?”

“You’re…” The pictures flash by, one by one, from the ones in high heels to the ones in button-downs. Photos that Taehyung (maybe) jerked off to discreetly in his bathroom, as he sat in the tub with his phone. He flushes red at the memory. “You’re Suga.”

Many emotions are contained in that scowl – bewilderment, ire, panic, etc. Suga carefully parts his mouth, “… I don’t know what you may be implying. My name is –“

“Suga. From BigHit, right?” The somewhat resigned, thinned lips confirm his suspicions. Suga is silent, as his shoulders sag and his fingers fondle with the discarded cigarette by his thigh. “I just happened to see you on the homepage, don’t get me wrong. I’m not stalking you or anything.”

“I guess there’s no point hiding it. And now I want my cig back,” Suga grumbles, as he runs his hand through his locks of hair. “I wasn’t fucking thinking anyone would recognize me, Christ. I dyed my hair to this disgusting color for a reason.”

Taehyung quirks an eyebrow, “It’s not disgusting.” Blue is one of his favorite colors.

“And that’s a subjective statement, Kim Taehyung.”

“You… know me?”

“I watch the news, you see,” Suga huffs ironically, “Kim Collective’s Kim Taehyung, kisses Park Jimin, who comes out as being Gay’. It was the story of the century. The bigger mystery is how you even discovered BigHit’s homepage – nobody fucking searches for escorts out of the blue. Thanks to you, I failed my task.”

“Oh, sorry.” He apologizes sullenly – he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to meet Suga in person, but if he had, this was definitely not how he imagined it occurring. “My friend requested for an escort from BigHit some time ago, and I just… yeah, sorry.”

Amused, Suga folds his arms as his mouth twitches. “I was being sarcastic, but, well.” He shrugs nonchalantly, “I have to say, it’s a first that anyone’s pointed out my alias like that. You said your friend requested for an escort at our company?”

“Yeah, um, Jung Hoseok? I guess you wouldn’t know him, but –“

“Jung Hoseok?” Suga demands with much incredulity. “You got to be kidding me. Is that kid associated with everyone on the entire peninsula of Korea or what?”

“Oh, so you do know him.”

“I don’t, actually.” The escort waves his hand dismissively, knocking his head against the wooden surface of the wall. “I’m just close to my coworker that was hired by him, is all. I’m here as an escort of one of his friends as well – Mark Tuan. I’m assuming you guys are all in the same ring of friends?”

“Mark, really? I haven’t seen him around.” Taehyung hasn’t been told that Mark was going to contact BigHit – none of them were really serious about the joke, anyway. “But yeah, we’re all friends. And you work alongside RM-ssi, then?”

Suga grunts, “No, not really. All escorts are independent, with the exception of Chan- well, no; they’re technically commanded to be independent as well. I mean, it’s complicated, but for the majority, this is an individual-based thing. RM and I are just on more amicable terms than others.”

He’s still somewhat in a daze, mainly because he can’t really believe that he’s conversing with _Suga – _the almost fictional figure that he spurred in his delusions, the one that frequented his more than inappropriate dreams every now and then, now edging on a daily basis. Everything about him is surreal – the way he licks his glossy lips as he explains himself, the way his index finger rolls the cigarette on the ground in habit, the way he averts his gaze from Taehyung when he contemplates upon an answer but then soon sharpens that obsidian shade when he talks – he’s so graceful, so exquisite, that Taehyung has to keep a mental note to not hang his jaws open and look stupid.

“Um,” Realizing that he’s been soundless for too long, Taehyung scrambles, “You said you were here with Mark? Where is he?”

“Ah, er,” His hand stroked his collar, “There was… a problem. A misunderstanding, precisely. He should’ve informed me beforehand if he had a romantic interest, fucking Jesus.”

_A romantic interest? Mark? _Taehyung’s mind matched the pieces together, and then he clapped as his palms joined. “_Jinyoung_ was here?”

“I don’t know, he was cute. Doesn’t really matter, I got my money. I just have to sneak out once this chaos is over.” He says it as if this circumstance is nothing new, just a part of his usual routine. Taehyung is somewhat certain that this wasn’t new to the escort. “Oh, right. I’ll have to ask you to not just disclose my alias like that outdoors – it’s troubling for my career.”

Taehyung nods glumly, unsure how else he should respond. He likes people and their presence; he normally had no qualms beginning a string of relationships with a huge crowd. But Suga seems to be extraneous to that principle, because Taehyung doesn’t know how to upstart a conversation. Don’t get him wrong, he really, really, really wants to talk to him – there was something that pulled him to the escort, now that he had encountered him in person. He just isn’t sure how to do that.

“Well, I’ll have to go now. It was… an experience, Kim Taehyung-ssi.” Suga shuffles as he stretches his body, preparing to depart. Taehyung’s internal state flips upside down and is sent into a wave of panic and ‘what the fuck no’ mode. He can’t just let him slip away like this, not when he finally had a taste of him, not when he met the _real_ thing, not the pretty person over his monitor.

“Hey, um!” Desperate, he extends his grasp for the escort’s dress pants, but ends up on his fours. Suga blinks at him bemusedly. “Can I… can I have your number?” _Smooth, Taehyung, smooth as melted chocolate. Totally not creepy. _

His lips thinning and jaw slack, Suga curtly answers, “No.”

“… Oh.” Of course. He wouldn’t want to give his number to some stranger in a treehouse in some questionable doggy position either.

“But you could call my boss. Put in a request.” The escort tosses a card to him, and there’s the contact information of BigHit, with three different wards.

He’s pretty damned sure that Suga smiled at him as he left.


	3. One Million Won and One Iced Americano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taehyung is confused, Yoongi is amazed, and there's one iced americano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to come next week, but I don't think I'll be to update next week so here's the compensation for that - an early chapter. Hope you enjoy, and thanks for everyone that supported me on the first two chapters :D

_Beep, beep, beep…_

_Beep, beep, beep…_

_BEEP, BEEP, BEEP –_

“Fuck, I got it, I got it!” He crashes his fist into his alarm, shutting it off. Burying his head into the comfort of his pillow, he very solemnly considers the option of skipping out today, but he can’t afford to do that – his rent was due this week, and that meant a large portion of his money was flushed down the drain. That wills him to rise from his bed and drag his feet to the shower.

Today would be the first day at the company since his assignment with Mark. He didn’t bid any farewells to Mark, not desiring to arouse further misunderstandings for the couple. He was still a little bitter about the fact that he had to be blamed for Mark’s inadequate behavior and reaction, but that was common in this line of work. He ought to be accustomed to it by now.

And it wasn’t that terrible of an experience, really. Kim Taehyung, was it? Yes, Kim Taehyung – he had been… a pleasant surprise. Yoongi never cared much for models, but he could definitely comprehend the reason why Taehyung was the ultimate fashion icon, the symbol of Gucci. He’s beyond handsome, a sculpture of god, that he _had _to be an ephemeral dream of that afternoon. He doubted his vision when Taehyung had inquired for his number on his knees, although that was merely coincidental. It was a shame that according to the code of his company, he couldn’t disclose any personal information while performing a task. Just a minute longer, and Yoongi would’ve relinquished.

_He isn’t quite worth my job, though, _he thinks as he runs the shower, the water ice-cold as it gradually became scorching hot, how he preferred it. _Probably worth around three cases. _His nose wrinkles in exasperation as he squirts out the last of his mint-fragrance shampoo. That meant he had groceries to do, because when he was low on shampoo, he was low on sugar and his stock of coffee as well. He’d call Namjoon and put in a favor, but his colleague was also occupied with some middle-aged woman, pretending to be her boyfriend so that she could file in the divorce papers with her husband.

The calendar read April 14th, and Yoongi suppresses a stressed groan. April is an irritating month in general – it began with April Fools, when a tsunami of requests flooded in for pricey pranks, and then spring break – when lonely singles sought for fake relationships and physical contact, because it was a period where everything was blossoming – love, flowers, couples, but not their nonexistent relationships.

_I hope Taemin excludes the mundane ones, _either that, or Yoongi has to work his ass off to be promoted to a First Class, that got to select their tasks from an endless heap of files and not just three. He doesn’t really plan on remaining an escort for _that _to occur, but the future was an ominous abyss.

He pulls on his normal suit and leather bag, and combs his blue hair so that it’s presentable. With a satisfied smirk, he locks the door behind him and marches out of his apartment, into the hustling roads of the city. He taps his foot at the crossroad, as the lights blare red – and Yoongi spots the large rectangular screen of the shopping mall just ahead, where there’s a skin product advertisement playing on repeat, with a very familiar model posing with an enticing grin, his suntan skin gleaming healthy brown. It’s Kim Taehyung, and Yoongi gulps. The professional and natural gestures, the alluring deep voice – it’s a stark contrast to the boy on his fours from yesterday that he almost seems like an entirely disparate entity.

“Shit.” He’s awakened from his trance when he notices that he only has thirteen seconds left to cross, the light now green. He dashes past the row of cars, cursing the stupid screen and how distractingly gigantic it was.

_He’s just a celebrity, _he convinces his own conscience, _and you’ve seen him countless times on TV. Just because you’ve talked to him in real life doesn’t make a difference to that. _With a spent grunt, he pushes the double doors of the building and slaps his ID to the machine, which has the auto doors sliding open.

“Oh, Suga!” He peers upward with a frown, and there’s N, a former coworker from when he was in the S ward. The older man is as attractive as ever, lean and elegant in his moves. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I don’t think I’ve seen you since the dinner outing in December, god.”

“Ah, yes, hi.” Yoongi stiffly greets back, “How’s it going for you?”

“Eh, the same, I guess,” N holds the elevator for him as they both aboard. “It’s April, you know the drill. The next worst heat after February; and all the requests I’m being thrown into are the people with really dubious intentions or kinks that mildly gross me out. Nothing I can’t deal with, but it’s taxing.”

“I understand,” He really does, though, as he nods sympathetically. He’s been in N’s shoes before – the escorts in the S ward got better money, but that just meant riskier tasks. “It breaks and settles in May, though, doesn’t it?”

N huffs in good humor, “Yeah, exactly what I’m anticipating. Just you wait until I gouge out my saved up holidays.” The lift halts, and they both step out, as other escorts enter. “Well, I’m expected at my boss’s office right now. I hope you have it better than me.”

“Thanks.” N shuffles over to the S ward’s main department, and Yoongi sits down on one of the vacant chairs of the T ward’s department hall. He has a few texts from Namjoon, who’s vehemently complaining about his client’s excessive skinship, ‘_she’s groping my crotch like what the fuck hyung’, _and Yoongi snickers as he texts back to suck it up. Soon enough, it’s his turn, as the secretary shouts his name from the corridor.

Per usual, Taemin is seated on his desk, poised handsomely with his new vase of flowers. It’s an impressive arrangement of cherry blossoms, with the branches intertwined between the blooms of petals. At this rate, he’s at the verge of being persuaded by the rumors that Taemin was indeed, secretly seeing someone else – but would he make it so blatantly obvious? Display flowers for every single employee of the company to admire?

“Good morning, Suga – how was the Park’s party?” Taemin questions, and Yoongi’s mind travels back to his moment with Taehyung.

“Uneventful.” _With Mark, at least, _“Tuan was a taken man, I was unfairly misunderstood and glowered at, end of story. Three million was sealed, though, and I got my portion.”

“Hm,” His boss hums in agreement, as he removes three colorful files from his drawer. “Are you sure that’s the only thing that happened?”

He goes static at the sudden interrogation – did Taemin know? Did Taehyung blow his cover to other guests at the party? But he didn’t seem like such a kid, and his judgment of character was scarcely incorrect. Blinking slowly, he answers calmly, “I’m sure, Head Escort. Director. Whatever you want to be named.”

“Well,” Taemin lightly shoves the three portfolios towards him, “You can skim over those and tell me again.”

Yoongi scowled, confounded, but obeyed. The first blue portfolio was from a twenty-year-old college student who needed someone to act like they were on a date to the Cherry Blossom festival at Dongdae-moon, and nothing was written in his ‘other notes’ corner or ‘skinship limitations’ box. He glances up at Taemin skeptically, who just juts his chin at the next folder.

The yellow one is basically a protest from a woman in her late twenties, in dire need of someone who was willing to temporarily play the role of her husband at her daughter’s parent participation day at her school or something. She had scribbled extra notes on the bottom that she couldn’t beg any of her male friends because they were all unavailable, and didn’t want her neighbors or her daughter’s friends to discover that her husband had left them a month ago. It isn’t a very wise decision, Yoongi thinks, but there are no issues with that one either. Then it had to be the last portfolio – the purple one.

He doesn’t believe it when he first scans the papers.

But it’s there, in bold print, highlighted and everything.

**‘[Name: Kim Taehyung]’**

“What the fuck?” Snapping up at Taemin, he silently demands for some kind of explanation, but his boss just gestures at him to continue.

**‘[Age: Twenty-five**

**Request: I want to drink coffee with Suga-ssi :D]’**

“Head Escort, what the fuck is this?”

“I like how you’re trying to be respectful but cussing me out anyway.”

“_Taemin, _I’m serious.”

Taemin, wearing a resigned smile, adjoins his hands together on his desk. “I’m just as perplexed as you are, trust me. It’s not like we haven’t had celebrities as clients, but it is atypical, and, well. It’s Kim Taehyung.” The implications of that last sentence are infinite – it’s Kim Taehyung. “And hence why I asked you whether anything else occurred at the Park’s – that’s the only occasion where I can picture you two encountering.”

Abruptly, he’s forced to replay the scene from the 10th, with him handing Taehyung BigHit’s business card and contact information, casually suggesting that he should input a request. He was pretty much joking, and he was so assured that Taehyung had perceived it as a joke. Turns out, they were on different pages all along.

Dumbfounded, he stares at the file like an idiot.

“That’s not it, by the way,” Taemin states, as he points helpfully to the bottom, where the deal’s offer is. Yoongi’s pupils dilate.

“… One _million_?” And he thought that Mark’s three million for a party partnership was generous. One million for a cup of coffee? That was off the charts of generosity. “Is this kid fucking insane?”

“Unfortunately, it’s an official request portfolio. Documented, in the records, all that. Normally, our clientele isn’t allowed to specifically choose an escort, but,” Grinning rather slyly, Taemin leans in, “You know I’m more lenient than the other Head Escorts, right? I don’t mind some minor violations of policy.”

“_Minor_ violations? Taemin, this is more than a breach in company policy, this is- nope. I’m not doing this. Give me the daughter’s fake guardian case, I’d rather cope with kids and some asinine ceremony than this.”

The Head Escort rolls his eyes. “You’re so unnecessarily stubborn, Suga. This is a rare opportunity to befriend the most popular male model of Korea – he’s plastered over every single magazine cover nowadays. I would’ve been on my knees beseeching him to fuck me if I were still in the S ward.”

“You’re so fucking shameless, Jesus.” He brushes his palm over his forehead soothingly, attempting to appease the arising headache. “I don’t need that kind of attention, Taemin. He’s Kim Taehyung of Kim Collective, what even- the paparazzi, Dispatch, don’t even get me started on _Yeonyaega-Joonggye_. You know I’ve avoided and shunned the diamond spoons that were famous for a reason. I’m not accepting this one after that history.”

“Oh, but _Yoongi,_” Taemin sneers, whipping out the usage of his real name – he _never _did that. Yoongi stares at his boss in alarm, and then at the security cameras attached in the top corners of the ceiling. That was a clear, transparent violation of company policy. Him addressing Taemin by Taemin is one thing; the Head Escort was one of the few escorts that simply used his actual name as his alias and could get away with it. “Envision how devastated Kim Taehyung would be, see? I’m sure he was lured by whatever you told him carelessly, just like how you woo all your clients – imagine how heartbroken he’d be when you refuse his request!”

Yoongi sucks in a stale breath – Taemin must be referring to the rare, maniacal clients he served, ones that chased him to the company building and stalked him to the verge of the company’s security team having to take legal action. CEO Bang hadn’t been too delighted with that – they had little luck when the law entered the picture. “… Are you threatening me, Head Escort?”

“No, of course not. I just,” Stalling, Taemin proceeds after some thought, “I just want you to enjoy your job a little more. There’s more to an escort than just the immediate task, Suga. There are actions we can initiate, only because we _are _escorts.”

He snorts – as an escort, all he ever did was pacifying arguments between his client and some ex-lover, hook his arms into a man or woman he wasn’t even minutely interested in, spray perfume that met his client’s preferences, etc. There seemed to be nothing to take advantage of. But that aside, Taehyung’s heartbroken face did strike something within him, nonetheless. He pictured that perfectly molded face contorting into one of anguish, disappointment – and yeah, he isn’t confident that he can live with that image in his head.

Reluctantly, he picks up the purple folder. “Fine, I’ll accept it, only because you’re so fucking insistent. Schedule a meeting with him, and I’ll adjust.”

Taemin smirks in satisfaction. “Perfect.”

He knows this is a choice he’ll regret.

***

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy _shit_!”

“Hyung, I get that you’re on a diet, but you can’t just cuss out your frustrations like that –“

“Kookie, you don’t have any silly errands this Friday, do you? Tell me you don’t.”

Jungkook ceases his typing on his laptop, and squints at Taehyung. “And what if I do?”

“Cancel them, of course. This is urgent, on par with the matter of the North and South uniting.”

The bodyguard deadpans at his drama, but does turn off the power of his laptop and focuses on Taehyung, who is spinning on his office chair in his private room of Kim Collective’s department building. “Do you have that photoshoot with Vogue again? Or is it Ceci this time? You liked their photographer.” The model shakes his head vigorously, and Jungkook sighs, hardly piqued. “Yeah? Then what is it?”

“It’s even better. Keep guessing.”

“Yuta invited you to his fashion tour in Paris?”

“He did, but I declined. Go on.”

“You got the tickets to G-Dragon’s solo concert in July.”

“Ugh, the tickets were sold out the moment I logged in. No chance.”

“I don’t know, hyung, I’m really not curious.”

“Wow, I’m hurt.” Taehyung pouts childishly, and relents as he flashes the screen of his phone in Jungkook’s face. The younger scans the text, and forms an understanding ‘o’ shape.

“I never knew you were acquainted with Suga.”

“He’s _so _cute!” He gushes out, tapping his feet madly. “No, maybe that’s not right. He’s hot, too. He looks _so _smoking hot and fuckable in a tux, and _god _his skin. It has this… this _glaze _over it, I swear he resembles a Krispy Kreme doughnut. Like, I don’t know Jungkookie, is it even _legal _for someone to be so downright _amazing_? It has to be illegal in some country, some unknown kingdom, Suga has to be imprisoned somewhere for –“

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Jungkook pinches the bridge of his nose, coaxing Taehyung’s love and adulation for the escort. He doesn’t even apprehend how a person is supposed to resemble a Krispy Kreme doughnut, but this was Taehyung at the core of the subject. “So he accepted your… I don’t know, what do you even want to do with him? Fuck him? Fish out a blowjob?”

Taehyung gasps histrionically, “How could you so bluntly utter such profanities, my lovely Kook? What happened to my innocent little Jungkookie with bunny teeth and asked me what ‘lube’ was when he was thirteen?” Jungkook gives him a meaningful face. “No, I did not ask him to have sex with me, Lord. That’s not even in his options.”

The secretary frowns, “I thought all escorts were for the purpose of, well, sleeping?”

“BigHit functions differently, I think. Only escorts of the S ward can have sex, and the B and T wards do basically everything but sex. And Suga’s in the T ward.” Taehyung personally isn’t too eager to be in bed with Suga – he’s not like Jimin, prone to one night stands and friends with benefits, easygoing with sex. Of course, he had his fair share of partners in college and while he worked and toured, but they were all proper relationships. “I wanted to drink coffee with him.”

“Coffee,” Jungkook reiterates in disbelief. “I can literally do that with you like, right now.”

“You know that’s not what I’m looking for.”

“I don’t know, really.” Sighing again, the boy moves on, “Okay, so coffee. And how much are you paying for that?”

“One million?” Sheepish, Taehyung hunches his shoulders and regresses to the window, maintaining a safe distance from the burlier bodyguard.

“One _million_?” Jungkook confirms in shock, “For a cup of _coffee_? Even a mug of luwak coffee is cheaper than that, and it’s the most expensive coffee in the world, hyung! What were you thinking- he’s just an _escort, _hyung, if you really were needy for a partner or date, you _know _Jin-hyung can order people to search for more suitable individuals.”

“But I want it to be _him!_” It was practically meaningless if it wasn’t Suga – it’s not like he was seeking for a solid relationship to be established or anything; he just desired to get to know the man better. “And besides, you’re fully aware of how I feel about arranged marriage or engagements, Kook. I can’t do it.”

“Jin-hyung is happy with Leejung.”

“_Is_ he?” Taehyung challenges rather defiantly, but quickly loses his steam. “You know what, let’s not. I was just wondering if you could drive me to BigHit this upcoming Friday.”

Jungkook nods reluctantly, writing down his new schedule in his planner. “I’m just worried, hyung. You know all those articles about escorts, though none of them are from BigHit, how they’re involved in underground trades and all that… just last week, Choi Seungmin was arrested for smuggling drugs into the country as a gift for his favorite escort. I’m sure they’re not all like that since they’re humans too, but you do have to be cautious.”

“Alright, alright,” Taehyung rolls his eyes, “you’re becoming more and more like Seokjin-hyung every day.”

“I’m not.”

“You really are.”

On Friday, Taehyung is thrown into a fit of unprecedented anxiety hysterics, something he hadn’t suffered since his first date in high school. He calls Jimin to his home and is frantic about what he should wear, although today isn’t the day of the coffee date – apparently, all escorts and their clients had to have a mandatory appointment scheduled before the actual event, just in case the client had any additional notes to mention. He really shouldn’t be freaking out over his attire because he’s a fashion model and should have a hang with this kind of thing, but he doesn’t trust his selection of clothes at all.

In the end, Jimin and Jungkook both approve of his renewed outfit, which consists of a black-checkered flannel with a plain white undershirt, his jeans hugging his thighs just right. Jimin hooks his dark emerald studs in his earlobes, and pats his shoulder reassuringly, “Mm, not too formal, not too informal, and you’re still hot. I think that'll do.”

Taehyung bites down on his chapped lips. “Really? I’m not screaming any lewd messages? I’m in PG range?”

“Honestly, you’re borderline always R-rated with your physique and jawline Tae, but I mean. I’m certain Suga-ssi can behave like any civilized human being as well.” Jimin glances at the clock, and turns to Jungkook, who’s patiently waiting for the two to finish. “Jungkook, I think we’re ready. Make sure Taehyungie doesn’t suffocate or strangle himself to death in the middle of the ride.”

“I’d be fired if that happened – it’d be troublesome.” Jungkook twirls the car keys on his index finger and exits the apartment, down to the parking lot. Taehyung conducts his breathing exercises with the assistance of Jimin, and his best friend continuously reminds him that he’s perfect, and that Suga would have to be blind to not assess him as ‘gorgeous’. The dancer pulls him into a warm embrace before he leaves, and soon he’s in the car with Jungkook, squirming on the cool leather seat.

In truth, it wasn’t really his clothing that made him so antsy – it was Suga’s attitude. Suga had been so collected and composed at the treehouse, so mature and adult-like, and it had a very nauseating effect on Taehyung. It was a refreshing affair, especially because Taehyung never had someone that emanated such an aura around him with the exception of his brother – and even then, Suga was a stark contrast from Seokjin. Seokjin was like the first dawn of spring, comforting and serene with his words. Suga was much closer to a soundless winter’s early sunset, somewhat mysterious and indescribable. It stirred Taehyung’s inquisitive nature – what was past that piercing porcelain mask?

“Is it a crush?”

Taehyung jerks in surprise, as Jungkook steers to right. “What?”

“Do you have a crush on Suga?”

“Wha- _no, _it’s just- I have _pure _intentions, this is not a crush!” Flabbergasted, Taehyung denies the accusation, but the rapid thumping of his heart seems to claim otherwise. Jungkook snorts, but doesn’t retort. _I mean, _he begins an internal monologue, _he’s pretty, in the Persian kitten way. There’s something royal about him, something more. Really sexy voice, if I may add. He could literally recite my calculus textbook from college and I’d be turned on. He smokes, too – that’s kind of cool. Probably unhealthy for my plants and his lungs, but it fits his image. In conclusion, he’s beautiful and great, but this is not a crush. _

“We’re here,” Jungkook announces as he steps on the brakes. They’re in front of a tall, gray construction, and it appears to be like any other company out there – lines of identical windows, double doors at the entrance with two security guards on the post, and men in suits going in and out. There’s the black sign of ‘BigHit’ that is stuck atop the entrance and Taehyung draws a steady breath in. “I’ll be at some café, so just text me when you’re done.”

“Okay.”

“Good luck with your crush.”

“He’s not my –“ Jungkook stomps on the pedals and races away, just as Taehyung is about to argue. “Such a brat.” Scraping any leftover courage for his state of mind, Taehyung walks into the building, his grip trembling as he clutched the strap of his Gucci bag.

There are numerous groups of men in various colors of suits jogging and rushing through the hall of the first floor, is what Taehyung catches onto. They’re all obviously escorts, as even amidst their frenzy, they were all still somehow beyond average standards of beauty. He observes the passing escorts for a while, and then lost, he tries to locate an information desk.

“May I help you, sir?”

Yelping at the intrusion, Taehyung snaps to his right – there’s a woman, which is astonishing, because she’s the first female he’s ever seen in here; she’s dressed in a standard suit as well, the only unique accessory being her red tie. “Oh,” He blushes, embarrassed of his rampant reaction, “Yes, um. I’m actually here to meet with Suga-ssi, the escort? I put in a request and I received a message that it was acknowledged.”

“Ah, in that case, please head to room 303 on the third floor. It’s where Suga normally has his meetings.”

“Thank you so much!” With that, he briskly traipses over to the elevator, and jams his finger into the button ‘3’. There are several other escorts around him, and it’s a little disconcerting how quiet they all are – were all escorts so aloof? Maybe it was in their job description, he didn’t know. Stupefied, he jumps out of the lift and searches for room 303 – the corridor is pretty long, and the placards started with 320.

Thankfully, room 303 is just a swerve to the left, and he’s there in less than thirty seconds. _Okay, _inhaling, he fixes his gaze on the plastic sign ‘303’, _you can do this, it’s just a meeting, Taehyung. You can do this. _Determined, he twists the doorknob and swings the door open.

The meeting room isn’t as stuffy as he expected – one entire wall opposite of the door is made of glass with velvet curtains draping from the sides, so that the whole view of the city and the sun swarms his sight. A lengthy white table is in the center of the room, four chairs each on the left and right and one at the end. Suga is on the chair farthest from the door, his back to a glass wall, wearing a black suit and tie that seems to be the standard escort uniform. His hair is still dyed electric blue, and it glows like the Pacific Ocean under the rays of sunshine.

“Um, hi.” Taehyung chimes in, and Suga looks up from his phone. “Sorry, am I late?”

“No, I’m early.” He knocks the surface of the table twice, signaling to sit down next to him. Taehyung is wary so that the chair legs don’t screech as he drags it. Suga rummages through his belongings and removes a purple file the stack, and steals a circumspect glimpse, “So, Kim Taehyung-ssi – I believe we’ve met before.”

“Yeah- yes, at Jimin’s, er, I mean at the Park’s.”

“I personally hoped that my sense of humor would be reciprocated,” There’s something strained about Suga’s polite smile, “I wasn’t thinking that you’d _really _submit a request form.”

Puzzled, Taehyung tilts his head, “Then why’d you give me the card?”

The escort fiddles with the plastic cover of the file as he presses his lips together in a narrow line. They share a prolonged moment of eye contact, in which Taehyung has no clue what he did wrong, and Suga in his state of mental turmoil. Finally, the latter grumbles, “Fair enough. What’s done is done – let’s not discuss it further.” Albeit confuddled, Taehyung answers with a terse nod. “I’ll guide you through the basic procedures, so just follow my instructions. First, please take a minute to read over this,” Suga hands him a piece of paper – it is titled ‘Bold Page’. “You and I are both bound to the principles on that paper. Please keep that in mind.”

So Taehyung does – it’s relatively acceptable; he could understand why such rules would be essential in this kind of field. _Four, the escort cannot, in any circumstance, disclose their real given name; so that’s why they all have those weird codenames, like N and Kai and whatever. That makes sense. _

_‘Five, the escort must not hold any romantic attraction for the client. If this is the case, the worst penalty will be expulsion from the company.’_

Taehyung swallows.

“Any questions?” Suga questions quite monotonously.

“So, I’m supposed to call you Suga? Is that the rule?”

“Well, my codename is Suga, on the official documents and my escort profile. But depending on the task I’m obliged to do, the client is free to choose a new name for the escort.”

“Huh, okay.” He rests his back against his chair, “Then, what do you prefer to be called?”

That results in a blank expression from the blue-haired man, his mouth slightly agape and the hand that supported his chin collapsing to the table. “… I’m sorry, come again?”

“I mean, I don’t know, if you like Suga then I can call you Suga, but is there any other name that you like more? I wouldn’t want to call you by something that you feel uncomfortable about.” Suga’s face morphs into one of total disorientation and a tinge of… he can’t decipher it, but it’s not bad. At least, Taehyung doesn’t think it’s bad, and his instincts were usually bull’s eye.

“… I’m fine with Suga, thank you for asking. And I should call you Taehyung-ssi?” Regaining his composure, Suga endures on.

“Ah, you can drop the honorifics, I don’t like it. Oh right, are you older than me? Or… are you not in the position to disclose that either? I’m twenty-five, by the way!”

Suga is silent again, and Taehyung notes that the man does that a lot. He sort of likes it, enjoys it even – it feels as if he’s putting a lot of thought and strength into his answers, regardless of whether that’s true or not. At last, the male replies, “I’m twenty-seven.”

“So you’re my hyung! Can I call you Suga-hyung?” He lightens up, and Suga twitches at the proposition, looking a little irked. “I mean,” Discouraged, Taehyung speedily amends, “If you’re not okay with that, it’s totally fine too! I can just call you Suga, if that’s better for you –“

“You can call me hyung.” Suga easily interjects him, with a softened, passive expression. “I’m okay with that.”

There’s a lukewarm sensation that blooms like spring in his stomach, and Taehyung has a challenging time trying to force down the feeling from exploding. “Alright, hyung, um- so when are you free?”

“Whenever you’re free.”

“So now?”

“Now?” Suga furrows his brows; “You don’t want me to change or anything? No particular preferences for my attire? That’s included in our services, just in case you weren’t properly informed from Tae- I mean, my boss.”

“Why change? You look perfect as you are right now.” Taehyung responds earnestly, and that gains a rather adorable reaction from the escort – his pale skin is painted baby pink in a span of three seconds, as he sputters. “Besides, my schedule is packed for the rest of the week and the next – I have this cereal advert to film and some photoshoots. Unless you don’t want to go out today? I can tell my secretary to modify my schedule; he’s one call away.”

“Oh, er,” His trained posture and refined tone crumbling down, Suga blinks fast and hard, “That wouldn’t be necessary. I- we can go right now, I don’t mind.”

“Okay, awesome!” Taehyung grins in relief, “I have a café that I know nearby – I can’t really frequent cafés like Starbucks or Ediya because, well, publicity and stuff. Jimin promised that he’d quell any drama or rumors and the press in general, but you never know, right?” The other nods in comprehension. “And besides, I don’t think being broadcasted all over the nation would be favorable for you, either. Escorts aren’t recommended to receive a lot of media attention, aren’t they?” Again, Suga nods firmly. “Well, not a lot of people are aware of this café’s presence – it’s owned by my brother’s- well, friend. Are you ready?”

With a tense pause and a cautious stare, Suga gets to his feet.

“Sure.”

***

Kim Taehyung is an enigma.

Yoongi had been simulating multiple scenarios in his mind. One, Taehyung was the classic diamond spoon heir that found himself entangled in an engagement he never wished for, and was eager to devise a strategy that would be able to destroy that arrangement. Two, Taehyung longed for a physical relationship with him. That was pretty common in this industry, as with N and his clients and others. Three, this was the first act of a large scheme, one of those stories that got glued on headlines in the news and all that crap. Four, and also the most unlikely, Taehyung _really_ just wanted to drink fucking coffee with him.

“What do you want to order?”

He bores into the menu and skims over the prices. They’re not exorbitant numbers, just regular four digits as it would be in any other store. He peeks at Taehyung, who went for his ‘usual’, whatever that was. Typically, this was where his client would ask him to do something, not what he wanted to order. “What do _you _want me to order?” He inquires, agitated by the lack of knowledge of what Taehyung truly needed him to do.

“How would _I _know what you want?” To his dismay, the Kim is just as confused and lost as he is. _This was a mistake, _Yoongi laments sorrowfully. “I mean, you look like an iced americano person, if that’s what you mean.” That’s not what he meant at all, but it’s a little astonishing that Taehyung got his favorite right.

“I’ll have one iced americano, then.”

“Do you like iced americano?”

“No,” He lies, curious of how Taehyung would respond. The boy’s tender features distort in horror, his puckered mouth parting to block that order that just went in. Something warm and fuzzy blossoms in him when he sees that, not that he understands why. “I’m just kidding, Taehyung, americano is my favorite.”

The terrorized expression vanishes quickly, replaced with a tranquil smile. “So I was correct, then?”

“Yeah.” Taehyung giggles in glee, and he has to admit that the boy is cute. His smile is rectangular (he didn’t know that was possible, but it obviously was), there were stars spangled in the night of his chocolate eyes, and his red hair curtained his forehead and complemented his sun-kissed skin. He genuinely carried himself like a god, like an Adonis but not in the mythical sense. He’s very much real and palpable, and Yoongi doesn’t remember the last time anyone has ever asked him what he wanted – because his opinion wasn’t to be valued as an escort.

But deviating from that topic, the café itself is very relaxing. It is overwhelmingly pink, from the couches and windowpanes to the menu board, with other furniture and accessories being beige and white, but Yoongi acclimated to his environment fairly easily. He isn’t entirely sure what Kim Seokjin’s taste is, but he isn’t the one to judge another person. Taehyung picks the table next to the window, and has Yoongi sit on the side where the curtains obstructed his view from any outsiders or civilians passing by. His kindness and unrevealed motive are what Yoongi has yet to adapt to.

“In the request form you submitted, you paid 1 million won for this… _this_. Are you sure this is all you want?” He’s delicate with his words and how he phrases them. He doesn’t want Taehyung to forfeit his deal, but simultaneously, he wasn’t confident in Taehyung’s objective – if he even had one. “Don’t you think it’s too much for a cup of coffee?” _And he’s the one that’s paying for it too. _

“But we’re not only drinking coffee, are we?” _Ah, there it is. _There was something else that had yet to be uncovered, after all. Of course, Taehyung had other plans in stow. Yoongi braced himself to hear the rest of it – the deal was sealed, after all. “We’re having a conversation, and I think that’s worth it for me.”

_Blink. _

“… Pardon?”

“A conversation and coffee,” Taehyung repeats, dragging out each syllable. “With you.”

His head turns white as a blizzard in the Arctic, as option four blares in bold letters. Taehyung really just wanted to drink coffee. He wanted coffee and a conversation with him. He paid one million for that – solid one million, plus the coffee. Yoongi couldn’t process that explanation – because who would even _do_ that? He had been stuck with all categories of diamond spoons, from shy and reserved to greedy and sleazy, but never Kim Taehyung. Kim Taehyung is special, apparently, because this is unparalleled by any other.

An enigma.

“But why?” Is the initial question that is choked out of him, because really, _why_? Five years at BigHit, and never a Kim Taehyung. Twenty-seven years of life, and still, never a Kim Taehyung.

“Because I like you?”

Never a Kim Taehyung.

_Because I like you. _

“I- I mean, not _like_ like_. _That’d get you in trouble, wouldn’t it? It was stated in the Bold Page that you could be expelled or something. I just… you’re nice. I want to know you more.” Yoongi consumes a second to let that sink in. For some very peculiar reason, the first thing that pops into his muddled mentality is that that clause on the Bold Page only applies to the escorts, not the client. So technically, it didn’t really matter as long as Yoongi wasn’t in love with Taehyung. But he can’t bring himself to declare that aloud.

Instead, he whispers, “You want to know me more.”

“Yeah – speaking of which, favorite color?”

“… Dark colors.”

“Ooh, so like blue? That’s cool, I like blue too! And natural colors, hm, but I like purple as well. Oh, and I don’t like coffee – hence the strawberry yogurt smoothie.” He glances down at Taehyung’s smoothie. The model ‘shh’s, “I’m not allowed to intake sugar at such sinful portions right now. It’s edging to the summer season, so I ought to be sensitive with my diet. You won’t tattle to my manager, right?” Taehyung winks teasingly, and Yoongi snorts.

“I don’t even have a clue who your manager is, no worries.”

“He’s a total jerk – I’ll always ‘hyung do this’, ‘hyung do that’. That pompous brat thinks he’ll be okay as long as he calls me hyung.” _Sluuuurp, _“He’s my manager-slash-secretary-slash-bodyguard. Do escorts have bodyguards? I guess not, since you don’t seem to have one.”

“Ah, no, the Head Escorts and select others do, at least on duty. There are only three Head Escorts and like five privileged and qualified normal escorts for that anyway.” Famous, experienced escorts that had over eight years of service accomplished were more cherished and protected by the company after all. Heechul had been the prime example of that, until he decided to flee BigHit and dash into the arms of his idol lover.

“And you’ve been at this for how long?”

“Five years now.”

“Wow,” Taehyung sounds legitimately stunned, and he has no idea why, because his occupation was and is by no means complimented or regarded with any positive feedback in public. Namjoon’s parents had disowned him when their son confessed how he was sending them money every month, and his very own brother, who had been at least tolerant of him transferring to Seoul, finally gave up when he was employed at BigHit. “That’s really cool – I’ve only been a model for three years now, ever since I graduated from college.”

“It’s really not that epic.” He mixes the contents of his coffee as the waitress places it in front of him, “I crashed a wedding on multiple occasions, and I’ve been a witness to the greatest family drama of the twenty-first century with some inheritance deal. The best was the ‘you two are actually long lost siblings’ reveal – that was dope. I felt like I was a part of some Korean morning soap opera.”

Taehyung laughs, charmed. “Nothing that fun happens at work for me. I meet a lot of models, though, and it wears down on my self-esteem a little. Everyone’s so talented and good-looking, and I’m now a pro but I used to be a rookie and all. I still get jittery before a major showcase.”

Yoongi personally doesn’t relate why Taehyung would ever feel less handsome or talented than the surrounding models or celebrities in his field – it wasn’t like he read magazines or watched any fashion shows at Milan, but he knew Taehyung and Taehyung is beautiful. That’s not out of affection or anything; it’s just a factual statement. He doesn’t know how to express this without coming off as fake or unhelpful, so he mumbles, “I think you’re plenty handsome.”

At that, the redhead’s jaw descends, snaps, and then he beams. “Thanks. You’re really pretty, too.”

“Pre- I’m not _pretty._”

“What? But you are!”

“I’m not, and that’s final.” He doesn’t like ‘pretty’ – he’s not _pretty_. His heart is dancing and his serotonin level seems to be busting through the roof but that doesn’t mean anything.

“Okay, whatever you say,” Taehyung smirks but resumes to his list of questions. Yoongi engages in them, within the border where he isn’t going against any company guidelines or rules, in vague answers and nonspecific descriptions. Taehyung is placated, however, and it’s somewhat refreshing to see that. To see someone so happy over a cup of coffee and a conversation, despite the preposterous price tag it arrived with.

As Suga, he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get Kim Taehyung at all.

But he doesn’t hate it, so he leaves it at that.

***

_Clink, clank. _

_Clink, clank. _

“Oh, you’re alone today, are you? What happened to your short friend?”

“He’s going to be furious if you say that to his face, auntie,” Namjoon chuckles, “But he’s at work today, so I came alone. Can I have some pork skin and two bottles of chamisuel?”

“You got it! Pork skin and soju, coming right up!”

He plops down on his usual red, plastic foldable table, fumbling for the right pair of chopsticks and some tissues from the drawer attached to the bottom of the table’s surface. Yoongi had texted him that he was drinking at some discreet pink café with Kim Taehyung – _Kim Taehyung_ – and that he wouldn’t be done anytime soon. Namjoon had met the model once, and he was quite intimidating with his polished makeup and well-built physique. Who really was mesmerizing though was the brother, Kim Seokjin – he perhaps didn’t stand out as much as the younger Kim, but he surely wasn’t inferior in beauty or elegance. Something was captivating about him – something that just tugged at others’ strings, and Namjoon was a victim of that charm.

The woman roughly slides the plate of pork skin, and Namjoon thanks her with a shy smile and picks up his chopsticks. He carefully moves the wet pork skin to the grill, and there’s a delicious sizzle that instantly echoes in his eardrums. The waft of meat and the characteristic greasiness of the skin have his mouth watering in seconds, and it’s a shame that Yoongi isn’t here for this.

“Oh, it’s you.”

There’s a voice that resounds from above, but Namjoon barely registers it. He’s too engrossed at the sight of his pork skin browning and popping on the grill. He doesn’t even notice that the owner of the voice has taken a seat across his table, their arms folded across their chest and right leg over the other. The person reaches for their chopsticks as well, and waits alongside a Namjoon that is very much in his own dreamland.

“Ahem – hello, RM.”

_Not Namjoon?_

He scowls upon the name – his name. His free time – his Fridays after an assignment was when he was liberated from that cursed faux identity, and who was this imposter to ruin that freedom? Escorts didn’t do that to one another, they respected privacy and individuality. So who even dared-

Oh.

Kim Seokjin.

Wait, not ‘oh’; why the hell is _Kim Seokjin_ here?

“Watch that, it’ll burn.” Seokjin casually flips over a slice of skin with the large metal tongs, “Fancy meeting you here. I’d imagine escorts eating elsewhere with their rich clients.” He acts as if he isn’t the only heir to one of the most influential businesses in South Korea, like ‘rich’ is a foreign term for him.

Namjoon soothes out the protruding questions in his head. “I actually tend to serve average businessmen and the very middle-class citizens. I, for one, wouldn’t imagine Kim Seokjin dining at some worn down eatery at this ungodly hour.”

“Food doesn’t have boundaries,” Seokjin points out matter-of-factly, as he dibs at one of the pork skin pieces on the grill with his chopsticks. The smoking meat is popped into his mouth, and Seokjin chews. “It’s delicious – you should try some, too.”

“_I _ordered this for myself, I forgot to mention.”

“Yes? Well, we could always split the bill, don’t you think?” Namjoon scans Seokjin in amusement. The man is in neatly ironed clothes, although it’s just a long-sleeved white shirt and faded gray jeans, and his tuft of dark brown hair is not styled in any particular mannerism, just let loose. One wouldn’t deem him as the man in line for the throne of the Kims with how he was right now, but he indeed is. That still doesn’t answer his prodding curiosity of why Seokjin is present at this very diner, however. Seokjin snaps northward right then his mouth full of pork skin and kimchi, “It’s rude to stare when someone’s eating. I know I’m astoundingly magnificent and attractive, but.”

The younger man blanks out, oblivious to the fact that he was staring – and then chortles at Seokjin’s subtle self-compliment added towards the end. “I’m sorry, it was unintentional. You _are_ quite attractive though.”

“Hmph,” The Kim doesn’t seem to be impressed by that, as he lowers his head to his plate, “You escorts always woo people like that. Second nature, isn’t it?”

_You escorts, _it’s a generalization – an awfully personal-sounding one, too. That snide remark could only originate from someone that has gone through a series of escorts, and that pokes at Namjoon’s keenness. “So you know our industry, do you?”

“Do I _know _your industry- are you joking with me, I –“ Seokjin inhales a shuddering breath, a flash of remorse dampening upon his doll-like complexion. With quivering fingers, he snatches the bottle of soju from the side and dumps the bottle into a glass meant for beer. “You escorts are all the same, all play and sweet songs, and, and…” Namjoon can feel his guts squelching inside, and the prominent voice in his sanity shrieks that he’s landed on a mine. A big one, too.

“I’m sorry.” Seokjin murmurs incoherently as Namjoon apologizes, “You don’t need to explain yourself. I wasn’t really flirting with you, either, if that’s what you perceived.” The heir waves his hand dismissively, and that’s weird, because he’s certain that Seokjin has barely a drop of alcohol in his system- well, he’s chugging that whole glass of soju down his throat right now, but even then.

After minutes of eating pork skin, then soju, pork skin, soju, Seokjin spits sourly, “You escorts,” His ears are red now, and Namjoon is kind of worried. The only shitfaced person he had to tend to was Yoongi, and Yoongi didn’t get shitfaced until he was at his seventh bottle or so. Seokjin was at his first. “You’re all the same.”

So far, his interaction and progression in relationship with this man have been that eerily perceptive conversation at that prank birthday party, and now, his incessant, slurred berating of escorts. Not that he is complaining – he is enthralled. Despite Seokjin’s unveiled hatred towards escorts, Namjoon thought he was mystifying and stupefying, and that’s an enticing transformation from his dull, white-and-gray life.

“What kind of alias is RM, anyway? Are you some emo teenager longing to come off as cool?”

Laughing, Namjoon wipes a fake tear from his eye, “I’m affronted – it stands for Rap Monster, it’s an epic name.”

“It’s an epic failure.”

“Again, affronted.”

Seokjin shrugs, his focus on vision swimming. “And I’m guessing you can’t disclose your real name either.”

_So he’s definitely utilized our services once, _“You’re very updated and well-informed, aren’t you? I’d give you an A-plus for that.”

“See? All the same.”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“_Aaaaaallll_ the same.”

And with that, Seokjin begins snoring on the tabletop, his arm pillowing his head. Namjoon really has no clue as of how to solve _this – _it’s not like he ever had a drunk, slightly pissed, loaded with money heir as a client before. Maybe Yoongi had, but not –

Right, Yoongi. Why hadn’t he reached that conclusion sooner?

He dials the number, and puts his phone to his cheek – _he’s cute when he sleeps like that. _

“Yeah, hyung? You’re with Kim Taehyung, aren’t you? Can you tell him to retrieve his brother from our usual diner? Nah, he’s not dead, and no, I wasn’t on a job. Purely coincidental, I know, impossible. Yeah… yeah, okay, thanks. Bye.”

_Kim Seokjin. _

When Kim Seokjin wakes up, he’s in Taehyung’s car, with a jacket created from cheap fabric wrapped around his frame. It’s the navy jacket that the escort was wearing – that escort with the dumb dimples and lilac hair.

_RM, _it dawns in his intoxicated state of mind, _that’s a lame name. _

He drifts back to sleep, the tangy scent of garlic and the mellow honey beneath enveloping him.


	4. Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's an obsession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, here's the fourth chapter of Call Me By My Name! Thanks to all of you that left kudos and commented on the previous chapter. Please be reminded that this fic is updated bi-weekly just so that I have time to work ahead on the story.

“This guy is obsessed with you.”

“Tell me all about it.”

It’s late April and his sixth meeting with his Head Escort. That’s the normal routine and doesn’t faze both of them in the slightest. What _does _entertain Taemin, however, is that Yoongi has been accepting the purple portfolio from the same client at every single appointment, and that that client is Kim Taehyung. While his boss does offer three portfolios, as that’s the official procedure, both of them know (one of them more ruefully so) that the escort is going to choose the purple one nonetheless.

“First a café, then a national park, the movies – I still can’t believe he rented out a whole theater, holy shit – a private bar, a drive date, and now this? How much has that model purged for you in this one month?” Taemin smirks over his vase of red roses, as Yoongi completes the calculations.

“A solid six-point-two million.” That’s the last string for Taemin, as he doubles over his desk and begins bursting into a fit of laughter. “It’s not funny, Head Escort. Shouldn’t you be filtering out his requests? If I’m correct, only VIP customers are permitted to pick an escort. He’s utilized our services for less than a month.”

“Shouldn’t you be?” Taemin mimes him, “You have the right to reject it, Suga, nobody’s pressuring you to accept them.”

“The rest aren’t up to my tastes.”

“Don’t jest around; there was a five million deal from Choi Minwoo last week and you refused it for Taehyung’s road date.” That shuts him up, because he can’t argue with that one. It was almost a free five million deal – all he had to do was dine at some Michelin star restaurant with the wrinkled dude and convince his family that he was gay. Theoretically, it was a much more profitable trade than Taehyung’s drive date, in his flamboyant red sports car and Burger King’s double cheeseburger sets.

Theoretically.

“You’re falling for him,” A sly, wicked smirk on his face, Taemin mocks him directly, “_The _loyal Min Suga, ever so stiff and stubborn, is falling for a hotshot model. Good going, you.”

“Bad going, _you. _Don’t even joke about that unless you want me fired.”

“You know that nobody actually eavesdrops my office, right? There are many more… prioritized matters that our higher-ups have to care about than an escort crushing on their client.” The Head Escort leans in towards Yoongi, and Yoongi rolls back his chair for emotional security. “Really, though. You need a breather, Suga, how long has it been since you’ve been involved in a proper relationship _with _strings attached?”

Honestly, he’s lost count of the years. The last time he’s slept around was when he was still affiliated with the S ward, and that’s been a while, too. Maybe university? He had a boyfriend then, one with curly locks and freckles across his cheeks. The name is on the tip of his tongue, but otherwise… “It’s none of your business.”

“Just because we’re escorts doesn’t indicate that we’re banned from dating, you know.” His eyes toddle to the vase of fresh roses on the desk, and nods warily. Taemin had a boyfriend, girlfriend, whatever – that was ancient news. “You could learn a lesson or two from Baekhyun and Chanyeol, like, look at ‘em go.”

“They’re- those two are _special_.”

“And so are you.”

“Taemin, what the hell.”

“I’m just saying,” Taemin shrugs nonchalantly, sliding the purple portfolio over. “I’m your boss, yes, but we have a connection other than that too, don’t we? I’m your friend as much as I’m your Head Escort, and I just want the best for you.” That silences him into a temporary shock, because he’s never heard Taemin tell him something like that before. _Friends. _Were they friends? It lingers within him as he unfolds the file, skipping past the personal information of Taehyung that he already has memorized by now.

[**Request: _I want to go to a cat café with Suga!]_**

** **

“A _cat_ café?”

“You should be relieved that it’s not a maid café.”

“The fuck, we don’t have those in Korea.”

“I mean, he’s plenty wealthy – he could facilely purchase two plane tickets _and _go to a maid café with you if he wanted to.”

“… You’re right, I _should_ be relieved.”

Taemin sneers as he fiddles with the rose petals, “But you’re going to accept the quest.”

“This isn’t a fucking game, _Head Escort._” He plasters on a tight smile through gritted teeth, “Even though I _am _going to accept it, it’s absolutely irrelevant with what you claimed.”

“Like I said, adding ‘Head Escort’ for the cordial, polite effect doesn’t help anything when you cuss me out in the end.”

“Well, I’ll be going now. Extending this conversation is amounting to a migraine.” _And to believe this fucking piece of shit is my boss. No way this is my friend. I will battle against the reality that this shit is my friend. _“And hide those red roses before one of the authorities comes into your office, Jesus Christ. Are you advertising to the world that you have a partner?”

His orbs glittering innocently, Taemin licks his lips. “Aw, what’re you inferring? These are just flowers from my most recent job.”

“_Two, there must not be any action or suggestion of bribing with monetary or physical incentives that are shared between the client and escort that isn’t outlined in the official documents of the assignmen_t. And you’re the fucking Head Escort.”

“Don’t be so boring and stuck up, _Yoongi_.”

“Die.”

He heaves an elongated sigh as he exits the room, massaging his temples with his brows furrowed. No matter what Taemin selfishly presumed, Taehyung was just a client and that would be it. Sure, the national park was soothing – Yoongi didn’t even know there could be that many flowers in an area. He hadn’t visited a cinema in ages, and the majority of the films Namjoon watched with him were sappy rom-coms or creepily philosophical, but Taehyung had chosen a mystery thriller and it was interesting. The Kims’ private bar was extravagant and had _fabulous_ wine, not to mention that Taehyung was kind of sexy in that choker –

_Okay. _

_Okay, I’m going to stop there. _

“You have a boner.”

His entire body shivers into life as he snaps southward to his crotch, which doesn’t possess the telltale bulge. “Fuck you, I don’t have one,” Baekhyun, more famous as Baek, and notorious for being Chanyeol’s boyfriend, leers. “Baek, what the hell.”

“One, the fact that you even had to check is concerning. Two, do you know where my boyfriend is?”

“So you guys aren’t even subtle about it now.”

“We never were.”

“… I’m not even gonna. And for the record, no, I don’t know where Yeol is.” Baekhyun deflates with an acrid cluck of his tongue. “Whether you guys fuck each other in the janitor’s closet or make out in the restroom stall is not my business, but tone it down unless you want other directors to interfere.”

“Oh, please. We deliver them sufficient cash, and that’s all they care for.” Baekhyun shifts to the right as another escort shuffles into Taemin’s office. “Besides, are you like, ascetic? Paving a path to monkhood? Don’t _you _have someone that grabs your attention, Suga?”

He exhales tiredly, the headache growing by seconds. “I don’t know why so many people are probing about my sexual needs nowadays.”

“Maybe it’s about time that you get laid, then.” Baekhyun pats him on the shoulder sympathetically, wearing a ‘how pitiful’ face as he strolled past him, searching for Chanyeol.

On his way home, he contemplates over the severity of his situation – it wasn’t _that _much of an issue, was it? He never really felt the lack of skinship because he constantly had some man or woman clinging to his arm, or him clinging to theirs, and if the circumstance called for a kiss, he did it. Would Taehyung ever want him hanging on his arm? Leaning on his shoulder? Kissing?

Kissing _Taehyung_?

_Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. That is not a boner I feel. _

_Not a boner. _

_Nope. _

Maybe he should consider hooking up with some escort at the company too. Sexual frustration is a scary thing.

***

“I thought you proclaimed ever so confidently that this was not a crush.”

“It’s not, for the umpteenth time.”

“Right,” Jungkook’s answer contradicts his skeptical frown, as he glares at Taehyung who munches on his cookie on the couch. “Which is why you’ve spent over six million won on this escort and sixteen hours selecting the perfect outfit for these ‘dates’. Do you know how many excuses I have to come up with whenever your mother visits?”

Pouting, Taehyung sniffles a little and Jungkook bemoans his fate grudgingly. “But I like talking to him! He’s witty and sarcastic, and…” It’s disconcerting how Suga always wears the identical BigHit uniform suit to their dates, and how Taehyung still revels in his beauty. “Ugh, I have a crush on him.”

“_Like I said.”_

“But it’s not like I want to- you know, do _stuff _with him. I mean I do, but… ugh, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“You’re such a butthole.”

“That’s somehow more insulting than asshole and they mean the same thing. Apologize to my dignity, hyung.”

Taehyung puffs his cheeks, as he pours a glass of orange juice. Okay, so it hadn’t been hard admitting that he had a crush on Suga. He’s all for it, to be honest, since Taehyung’s never been the type of person to deny his emotions or ruminate over his actions or intentions. The predicament is that Suga is an escort, and that meant pursuing him was slightly more challenging than his previous partners. “He said he likes kittens – which, on a side note, is really cute of him – so I reserved a cat café. Do you think he’ll take it as me being stalker-ish or –“

“He’ll like it, hyung, stop fussing over it so much,” Jungkook interrupts him with an exhausted downturn of his lips, as he adroitly continues with organizing Taehyung’s schedule for the week. “And the Gucci sweater was _fine, _you look good in it. Stop creating a racket in your wardrobe.”

“You’re so insensitive, my Kookie.”

“I’m trying to _help_, and I’m not yours either.”

With a gruff ‘hmph’, Taehyung pats out the creases of his white Gucci sweater and carefully hooks it on the hanger for tomorrow. He then whips out a pocket mirror from his drawer and examines his reflection – a few dark brown roots are poking out from his head. “Jungkook, I think I should dye my hair. Can you call Hobi-hyung?”

The brunette mumbles, “Hoseok is Jin-hyung’s secretary, not a barber or hairstylist,” but fishes out his phone from his bag and dials the number. “What color this time?”

“Something dark – maybe black, or… natural brown is cool, too. Which do you prefer?”

“I’d rather have our hair colors not overlap, so black.”

“Meanie.”

Hoseok is at their doorstep in less than an hour, a shiny leather box on his right and his face a combination of mild irritation and sunshine. Before Taehyung can greet him into the house, the man chirps, “You better have a damn fantastic reason for dyeing your hair _today, _because my boss is in a testy mood and I risked my life to escape that office.” He kicks his loafers off and ushers Taehyung to the humongous bathroom of the apartment.

“I mean, your boss is my brother and my brother loves me with the power of a thousand dragon balls.” Hoseok hums in agreement as he takes out the equipment from his box and wriggles his fingers through his elastic gloves. “Why’s he in a mood though? Are the leaders giving him shit again? Because I swear, if I hear another ridiculous rumor about my brother climbing up the golden ladder or being a fucking parachute I will –“

“Leejung,” Hoseok tersely replies without even batting an eyelash, and Taehyung shuts up at that.

Yoo Leejung is Seokjin’s to-be-husband, fiancé, whatever. It’s an arranged marriage to benefit both families, and fortunately, Taehyung is exempt from that destiny as he’s the second son – but his brother had a heavy weight on his shoulders. Responsibility had tagged along behind him like an unwanted best friend, and Taehyung always felt a pang of guilt whenever his brother locked himself up in his bedroom to study more about the business or memorize a catalog. Seokjin is the most hardworking, diligent person he knows, and he despises those that gossip enviously when they don’t know shit about him.

Taehyung’s tongue tastes disgusting, as Hoseok applies the dye to his locks gently, from the top. “I wish he could at least choose who he wanted to spend his life with,” His brother said Leejung was nice, that he did a lot for Seokjin. But Taehyung had never missed how the older man’s pupils would waver, or how he watched his favorite K-dramas with this engrossed look of jealousy, moroseness, and everything in between. It made him so sad to see his beloved hyung like that.

“I do, too,” Hoseok says in a hushed voice – he and Seokjin were beyond the relationship of an employer and employee’s, after all, just like Taehyung and Jungkook. “He did seem a little recuperated last week, though. Remember when he was picked up from that barbeque place?”

“Oh, he was _so _shitfaced. I haven’t seen him like that in a century.”

“Hah, me too. He definitely didn’t drink alone, though – I mean if so then that’s just pathetic – but he had that jacket around him. And he wouldn’t ever admit it to me, but I catch him glimpsing at it wistfully every now and then because he hung the freaking thing next to his desk, where he hangs his coat.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Dead.”

“Damn,” Taehyung would love to witness that. His brother hadn’t been interested in someone for more than a decade – or well, he had been some time ago, but he’d never tell anyone who the person was. “Now I need to know who Jacket Man is.”

“Jin’s not going to crack, if you ask me. It was kind of hilarious; he always glowers at the jacket with so much intensity with a _pinch _of fondness. I don’t know who the guy is, but he’s in for a mess called Kim Seokjin.” Hoseok’s fingers are soothing against his scalp, and Taehyung closes his eyes and sighs happily. “By the way, I heard from Jungkook that you’re lovesick nowadays. Who’s the One?”

He sputters and blushes at the mention of Suga, the escort’s pretty cheeks and captivating movements and his wide gummy smile flashing like an alarm signal in his head. “Whoa, okay, strong reaction there,” Hoseok comments as he bites down on a guffaw, in which Taehyung harrumphs. “Fine, fine, I get it, I won’t tease you, and besides I don’t want to dirty the tiles right now. But really, who is it?”

“Ah, well,” He does consider lying or bluffing about it for the shortest second, because nobody had really approved of his crush on Suga so far – Jimin suspected it was some casual fling, Seokjin didn’t know because he was swamped with paperwork, and Jungkook always clucked his tongue in this bothersome manner whenever he dropped him off at BigHit. Taehyung never really minded, but lying here would imply that he was ashamed of his crush on Suga, and he didn’t want to give that impression – because he wasn’t, isn’t. He’s crushing on such a beautiful person, regardless of who they are, so why should be lying about that? “He’s an escort from BigHit.”

“Oh,” Hoseok stills with his advances on the dye, and then soon resumes. “Damn, he must be hot if you like him already.”

_Good lord, _he releases a pent up sigh of reprieve. At least Hoseok didn’t seem too concerned – but then again, Hoseok was very scarcely concerned over anything. “Jesus, hyung, he’s _amazing. _Ethereal, otherworldly, ‘why isn’t he fucking included in the Seven Wonders of the World’ kind of beauty. He has a really raspy voice but it hitches when he laughs, and Mother Mary I am blessed.” He babbles on and on and Hoseok simply nods in between and hums in accord with his gushing speech of adulation. He’s on the part where Suga has the most kissable lips when Hoseok interjects,

“You know it’s going to be distressing, don’t you?”

Taehyung skids midway and quirks a questioning brow, demanding for an explanation. Hoseok shrugs as he puts the shower cap over his head, “I’m just saying. I’m not claiming that I have firsthand experience with this stuff, but I’m well acquainted with people that do and I haven’t seen many- well, _any, _that end well. It usually breaks down and shatters because of the nature of an escort’s job, which leads to a heck load of ugliness and petty arguments. I’m all for it if the guy’s worth it, and even if he isn’t, you can do whatever you want. Just, I don’t want you to scar, I guess.”

That has his imagination rolling, and he thinks. He thinks of Suga giggling with other clients, listening to their stories with that dispassionate stare when in truth, he’s absorbing and concentrating on every word. He thinks of Suga sipping on a glass of wine and grinning at something his client jokes about, showing just a hint of his pink gums. He thinks of Suga crossing his legs and subtly touching his client’s hand as a gesture of comfort.

Sure, it doesn’t make him all delighted and rainbows when he imagines that. But it doesn’t really irk him, either.

“I do have a crush on him, but,” He twists his mouth a little, “I don’t like him that much yet, I guess. Not in a serious way. I enjoy talking to him and hanging out, but… I don’t know, I guess we’re more friendly than flirtatious, if you get what I mean.”

“Of course. I’m just warning you if that ever happens.” Hoseok takes one last scan of his job and gives a thumbs up. “Don’t shower right away, alright? I should be returning to the building right now, or I’m going to have to deal with a cranky boss. I’m gonna text Leejung to deliver a bouquet of roses or something to the office.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot, hyung.”

“Any day for my dear Taehyungie.”

Kim Taehyung suffers from a heart attack the next afternoon.

He’s seated in his car feeling a little peachy, and he checks his bangs in the mirror for what seems like the hundredth time. He’s wearing his favorite shirt – a clean white cotton shirt that reads ‘FANTABULOUS TACO’ in the center, with an adorable smiling mini taco on top – that Seokjin bought for him for his twenty-third birthday and some comfy wide-legged pants, with drop earrings on his left ear and a fake deep purple gem on the right. Jimin advised him to not overdress, especially because this was a cat café, not the Grammy’s or some overrated French restaurant. He’s parked discreetly in the underground parking lot of BigHit, so that he wouldn’t be meddled by a nosy paparazzi or sasaeng fans. There are still ten minutes until their promised date, but he’s been here for the past forty minutes, squirming.

Ever since Hoseok’s caution, he’d been pondering about what he wanted with Suga. The escort was eye-candy material, and undoubtedly a god in bed, just by how he carried himself. While he did turn Taehyung on, he wasn’t quite certain about bordering on anything too sincere or romantic. _What is he to me? Just a pretty escort? _That didn’t feel right or sound right with him, so probably not.

‘_Knock, knock!’_

He jumps at the abrupt echo of knocking on his window, and lowers the windows.

Heart Attack Moment.

The person that was knocking is Suga, and there’s nothing wrong with that. That’s not the source of the attack.

The fact that he’s not in a fucking _suit _for once, though. That’s noteworthy. Definitely.

“Hi,” Suga shyly opens the door and slumps on the passenger’s seat. He isn’t overdressed or anything – he’s in a yellow hoodie that holds the semblance of a newborn chick, and his jeans are so ripped that Taehyung is convinced that it’d transform into shorts if he tugs on the cloth once. _His head doesn’t look like a planet of the solar system anymore, _he offhandedly marks – instead, the fluff of Suga’s hair reminds him of a plant – it’s pale mint, like the sprouts of Taehyung’s garden.

Nothing really stands out, but.

But he just looks so _soft. _

“Wow,” He breathes after what is psychologically on par with an eternity, “You’re… you’re not in your black uniform.” _You look really cute, _is what he had intended, but well.

“Yeah, uh,” The escort nibbles on his lip, “Sorry. Last time when we went on that drive, I was sweating and the suit was a fucking hindrance. I usually wear the client’s provided dress code, but you said I could wear whatever, and I…” Suga curls his fingers around the strap of the seatbelt. “I can just change, if you prefer that. It’s included in our basic services, and it’s technically my fault for not –“

“Nonono_no_,” Taehyung clutches Suga’s wrist firmly, frantic. “I really like the hoodie, you look… you look really cute in it. Love the hair, by the way.” The escort’s stiff stance relaxes visibly at that, and Taehyung releases the wrist.

“Black looks great on you, too.” The ‘click’ of the seatbelt resounds in the car. “… Would you mind if I don’t wear my uniform to future appointments as well?” Taehyung’s heart expands as he ruminates upon the underlying notion that there’d be _future _appointments – this had been occurring for less than a month, but the pieces fell so easily in place with them.

“Of course I wouldn’t mind, hyung.”

Suga squints at him as if hunting for any hint of deceit or falsehood – and Taehyung just flashes his best ‘I swear’ smile, stretching his lips to his ears. “… Okay,” The man rests his back on the seat, “So, why a cat café? I’ve done my own navigation on Naver maps and there’s not a lot in town.”

“Ah, well,” Taehyung swerves to the left as they move into the bright road, “You said your favorite animals were cats, if you had to choose one. I initially planned for a zoo, but they’re always crowded and I figured that wouldn’t play out for both of us. I’m friends with the owner of this cat café, and he assured that he’d shut down the café from other customers today, so yeah.”

There’s a strained, maybe a little bemused scowl that fleets past Suga’s pale complexion; Taehyung notices that the escort does it a lot, along with his momentary silences. His grip on the wheel tightens, his stomach caving inward with anxiety. He couldn’t comprehend Suga’s emotions or inner dialogue – the man is a baggage of secrets, disclosing just enough information to paint his surface but not sufficient to actually get a grasp of his identity. He likes dark colors, cats, alcohol, money, and dislikes boisterous locations and clubs. Just about anyone on the street could say the same thing.

“You… don’t like it?” The model compresses his lips in a thin line, his gaze glued to the red traffic lights ahead.

“… No, I,” Suga scratches his thigh, “No, thank you for being considerate. I like it.” His words are colored with resignation, and Taehyung has no idea why. _Does _he really like it? The traffic light is still blaring red, and an old grandmother is struggling to cross with her stick.

“We don’t have to go there,” He flicks on the button for his playlist, just to quell the mood a little, “If you have somewhere you particularly want to go to, then we can always alter our plans. Don’t sweat it.”

“This is about _you_, not me.” Suga lashes out, and that jabs Taehyung’s stomach like a boulder propelled into his gut. The former seems to apprehend his anguish and confusion, and turns away from Taehyung. “… Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

Taehyung nods curtly and shifts forward as the lights blink green. The ride is painfully wordless, with the uncharacteristically poppy girl group song bopping in the vehicle. ‘_This is about you, not me’ _rings in his mind as he taps his index finger on the steering wheel – perhaps, Suga was correct in that sense – this _is _about him, logically and rightfully so. He paid for BigHit’s services and Suga’s, so really, he could do anything as long as he abided with the company’s standard guidelines.

But that made him queasy. Because where is Suga’s will in any of that? Of course, the point of escort businesses was to appeal to the client, acclimate to their taste, whatever. Suga was _used to _that environment, used to doing what he’s been told, strictly following a set of commands and executing them, like a computer. _It’s not what I need, though. _Throughout his life, myriads of individuals and convoys from organizations had buttered and sugarcoated their intentions and approached him, in an attempt to earn a spot in the Kim’s. He longs for something deeper, more heartfelt, and personal.

_‘It doesn’t have to be him’, _Jungkook had remarked, which was true – it didn’t have to be Suga. It could’ve been a middle schooler stuck in some math academy, a fifty-year-old bartender in some classy bar, or even an abandoned dog on the street if he wanted a new friend. He’s a social butterfly, and he can befriend just about anything animate, from the dandelions of his greenhouse to a flock of migrating birds in the sky. Friends came naturally to him, _people _were drawn by his persona, and therefore it didn’t have to be Suga at all. Everyone knew that, he knew that, and he’s sure Suga knows it as well.

But even so, it _does _have to be Suga.

Suga is a dot of ink on Taehyung’s sheet of white paper that is titled ‘Life’. He’s never been there before, and he’s unlike everything he’s grown up with. He’s not in silk robes and caked in makeup, he doesn’t speak with the posh Seoul accent and overly advanced vocabulary that some kids of prestigious families incorporated to flaunt their faux intelligence, he doesn’t walk with a ramrod-straight posture, and he doesn’t bombard him with questions that relate to the Kims, the Kims, and the Kims. Instead, Suga dresses in the clumsily ironed tux and faded loafers, his sentences are laced with a tinge of the Gyeongsangdo dialect with a sprinkle of a cuss that Taehyung’s never heard of, his shoulders are bent over like he’s freezing in negative degrees, and he rarely ever inquires him of anything. He’s unlike the bourgeois lifestyle Taehyung’s accustomed to, he’s unlike anyone in Taehyung’s white sheet of Life. Suga is a dot of ink that has dripped from the heavens, and Taehyung secretly wants the ink to smudge all over the paper – to gradually paint the white into a new wash of color.

So he _did _spend bags and bundles of cash on Suga. He did, maybe needlessly and overwhelmingly so, but so what? It’s his choice, his money, his effort, and his life. It doesn’t matter whether this is a crush or something a notch less, a notch more – he just wants more. He doesn’t like white. He wants Suga on that paper, because white is boring as heck.

“Hey.”

He’s stuttered into reality as a hesitant, quivering palm encloses around his arm. There’s Suga sitting with his obsidian orbs focused on him, his eyebrows knitted in clear apprehension and his canine tooth digging into the raw, red area of his lip, threatening to crack and bleed. Instinctively, Taehyung reaches out to Suga’s jaw and strokes it, “You’re hurting yourself.”

The male blushes baby pink, and quickly retracts his hand and slaps Taehyung’s away. “I’m not, and we’re here. We’ve been here for the past five minutes and you weren’t budging at all.”

“Oh,” His skin heats up, “Well, that’s stupid of me. Let’s go, yeah?”

He hasn’t been to the cat café ever since it’s opened, which was a year and a half ago. It’s been a while, but the exterior of the café is just as he remembers, no remodeling or anything. The walls are clover green, cute square windows with snow-white satin curtains, and the double-door entrance made of thick glass. They enter the place and the first thing that happens is a ginger cat sprinting into Suga’s ankle – in which the escort picks up with both hands, his heart stolen by the adorable creature. “Oh god, you’re so fucking fluffy, what the hell?” He smiles widely, revealing the gums that Taehyung loved to admire. The silver chain around the cat dangles in front, “So your name is Pad Thai, the fuck that’s so cute what even.” Whatever depressing mood the man has been in is now dissipated into thin air, and that relieves Taehyung.

There’s a shuffling presence beside them now, and he looks up from the scene to meet a boy with light brown hair and spectacles, smirking at him knowingly. “Hey, hyung. It’s been a while.”

“Ten, is it just me or do you have like, five more cats now?” Taehyung laughs humorously, and Ten – his younger friend with the Thai name he couldn’t ever memorize or pronounce correctly – snorts back, mumbling something about two of his cats falling in love and giving birth to twenty spawns. Suga finally acknowledges the company of the newcomer, and rises to his feet from his knees with Pad Thai in his embrace. He seems so determined to guard the feline against all the dangers of the universe, that Taehyung can’t stop the giggle slipping from his throat.

“So hyung, who’s _this?_” Ten leers at him with the ‘obviously he must be very important because you begged me to shut down the café for today’ message tucked beneath ‘this’.

“Ah, he’s um, er,” _Suga sounds too lackluster of a name, right? Too sketchy for my friends. _“He’s Ahn Yooho. My… friend. Yes.” Nobody would buy the last part, not even him if he were in a stranger’s shoes, but the milk was spilled.

“_Friend,_” Extra emphasis on the term, Ten spits it out like poison and turns to Yoongi for some kind of affirmation. “Really?”

“Ahn Yooho,” Suga introduces himself slickly, “Sorry that I can’t shake hands right now, Pad Thai is quite heavy. Friends, yes. And you are?” Taehyung can’t really fake his astonishment, because were all escorts expert actors? He just received the ‘Ahn Yooho’ more smoothly than he could’ve ever asked for, and he had no idea who this Ahn was.

“Oh, I guess hyung hasn’t said anything about me yet. I’m Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, a year younger than hyung.”

“Chit… what again?” Ten guffaws at the reaction, and waves dismissively.

“That’s my Thai name – I go by Ten. A pleasure to have you here, Yooho… I’m assuming you’re older than me.”

“Rude, I was mistaken for a high schooler two days ago.” Suga banters in an easygoing attitude, “But yes, I’m like three years older than you so I better hear those damned honorifics.”

The café owner sniggers and glances at Taehyung, “Your friend is funny. Fun size.”

“You’re literally shorter than him.”

“Offensive, but you’re right.” Ten hugs a spotted kitten that comes trotting in his direction, “Anything I can get you? I know hyung likes smoothies and milkshakes, but you?”

“Americano, iced.”

“Gotcha. And Pad Thai is having the joy of her life in your arms, so you can keep her for now. ”

Suga’s almond eyes twinkle in awe at the permission, first at Ten and then at Pad Thai yowling and clawing at his hoodie. “Your friend is my favorite person of the year,” He decides solemnly, and Taehyung acts a dramatic gasp, hitting his chest with his hand in betrayal.

“What about _me, _your loyal and chivalrous Taehyung?”

“Loyal and chivalrous Taehyung didn’t bestow me with the right to hold Pad Thai, so he’s kicked from the list.”

“Wow, I see how it is,” Sniffling, Taehyung bends down and hoists a Scottish fold from the floor, one that had been napping on the wood. It meows at him as if to whine, ‘how fucking dare you interrupt my precious nap’, but he places it on his lap as he plops down on the booth with a beige roundtable. The tag on its neck reads ‘Spaghetti’. “I’m gonna have Spaghetti to myself, then. No sharing with you.”

“Pad Thai is my soulmate, I need no Spaghetti.”

“How could you vomit such blasphemy at my _baby_?” He covers the kitten’s folded ears, and the kitten is legitimately deadpanning at him, what the hell, and he can swear on his pinky that it's screaming, ‘I’m not your effin’ baby, human, we’re a totally different species to begin with, did you fail your biology class’. It reminds him of Suga and his sass, to be honest.

Suga hums as he pets Pad Thai gingerly, completely sold. Ten tiptoes between them and sets the cups on the table, winks at Taehyung, and jogs away back to the counter, into the staff’s room. Spaghetti crawls on his thighs, pokes at them with its paws, its whiskers tickling Taehyung’s shirt. ‘Your thighs are at least warmer than the floor’, it seems to communicate, as it snuggles into Taehyung’s lower abdomen.

“I want to apologize for earlier,” The escort murmurs offhandedly, and Taehyung whips up his head from Spaghetti. Its tail smacks his hip for attention, and this is literally the neediest and sassiest Scottish fold he’s seen – but Taehyung does caress its furry back. “I didn’t mean to sound so angry. You were…” Suga appears so downright confuddled by what’s coming out of his own mouth, like he’s blabbering in Arabic. “You were being considerate. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Oh.” Spaghetti’s petite body rises and falls as it drifts off to a second round of a nap. “It’s fine, I get it. I guess I’m not… normal.”

The mint-haired man sends a sore look, “I mean, right. You are definitely disparate from my usual clients, but that doesn’t make you abnormal – I should’ve been more… accepting, I don’t know. I just, I know I asked you this before but,” He gulps, Pad Thai meowing up at him blissfully, “Is this really all you want? I can do so much more, because I meant it when I said this about you. The park was refreshing, and the bar had the best wine ever, but I have no fucking idea why you… _waste_ so much on this.”

It kind of ticks him off, how the other phrases it. ‘Waste’, is what he said. Waste, as if their past five dates or interactions were of zero value, as if it resulted in a large imbalance in comparison to the monetary value of the relationship. Taehyung doesn’t blame him, though – that’s how practically anyone would see it. Six million isn’t something you’d find under a vending machine or fall from the sky. He swallows down his annoyance and links his hands together. “It’s not a waste.” He mutters with much precision, “It’s not a waste. It might seem… eccentric to you. But I just… I’m drawn to you as a person. I want to know you more, like I said already, and I am aware that you have limitations – that’s okay. I just need you to understand that there are gains for me too.”

Suga bores into him, speechless. Pad Thai leaps off his lap and totters away to a huddle of kittens in the corner of the café, where there’s a cat playground. “… Do you like me?”

The query doesn’t phase him much as he expected, and it doesn’t have him jittery or stumbling over his own words like a high schooler than just got his first confession, either. “I do like you. As a person.”

Obviously, the answer doesn’t quite satiate the escort, as he’s still slightly miffed, with how he taps his nail against the plastic of the table and how he averts his gaze at an angle. Finally, he grumbles, “… You’re paying for this.”

“Right. And it’s my decision about what I choose to do with my money.” Taehyung softens at the frown of the other male. “I’m paying for more than just your services, Suga-hyung.”

The pinched face doesn’t vanish as soon as he hopes, but it does eventually. Suga’s shoulders sag, as he reaches his arms out for Spaghetti. “Alright, I give up. Now hand me Spaghetti.”

“Just because Pad Thai threw you in a ditch doesn’t mean you get to hog my dear, dear Spaghetti –“ And at that moment, the kitten on his legs stirs, observes its surroundings with droopy eyes, and suddenly hops out of Taehyung’s care. Then, with a haughty ‘farewell, idiotic human’ meow, it gracefully lands into Suga’s hold, who passes Taehyung a victorious grin. This little piece of shit. “Spaghetti, you fucking _traitor_.”

Suga sings a laugh at that, and mimics Taehyung in how he covered the Scottish fold’s folded ears and teases, “Don’t utter such blasphemy to my baby, Taehyung.”

“He’s not your baby,” Taehyung grunts back and pulls on his best furious façade, but it falters as he sees Suga blithely tucking the kitten into his frail arms, cooing at the spawn and booping the kitten’s nose playfully. His gummy smile is on full cinematic display, his normally sharp eyes rounded into crescents, and it’s like he’s regressed into a child that has discovered his favorite Power Ranger toy.

_I guess Spaghetti can eat shit, _Taehyung thinks, as he slurps on his milkshake and watches.

***

Seokjin ogles the digital clock that glares back at him in red angular numbers. _1:45 A.M. _The churning in his stomach worsens, and he chews on his nails as the comedy channel he has playing in the background explodes into a round of applause at some poorly choreographed dancing that one of the guests performed. He’s been crouched on the carpet of the living room for two hours now, and his ass is beginning to ache with his spine imploring him to fucking _change_ his position or lie on a goddamned mattress for once. _1:46 A.M. _He wriggles his brows at the doorway, heightening his auditory senses for a low ‘clink’ or click’ or ‘clack’ or anything like it, but there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.

With a drowsy sigh, he fumbles for his phone and scrolls through the messages again.

** _Leejungie_ **

_Hey can you wait for me?_

_I think its been a while since we_

_Idk_

_Done anything_

_I can buy coffee or wtev_

** _You_ **

_Of course why not_

_When are you off work?_

** _Leejungie_ **

_Idk tbh_

_Ill try to make it asap_

_Probs before 12?_

** _You_ **

_Ok_

_You know I like mine with whipped cream_

** _Leejungie_ **

_You do?_

_Well kk_

_Ttyl_

“Before twelve, my butt.” Seokjin rumbles disgruntledly, his body pleading him to just go to sleep, that he can’t torture himself like this when he hasn’t even consumed a drop of caffeine. But Kim Seokjin is a man of his promises and oaths and he’s adamant to remain awake until Leejung comes back home. He also craved for his latte with whipped cream – although that’d mean that he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight.

_He never acts out what he declares, _Seokjin rests his head on his palm. _I hate those kinds of people. _Okay, so maybe he is being a little unfair. Yoo Leejung is a busy man, balancing out his personal life with his career, sorting out the disaster that his father created before he passed away last year. Beyond that, Yoo Leejung is a decent man, who calls Seokjin midday to check on him, whether he’s eaten and all that, and invites him out to lavish dinners and hotels on vacation. But maybe, this is what is bound to happen when you’re about to marry someone that you aren’t even in love with.

Arranged marriage is horribly and mortifyingly outdated, Seokjin believes. Even K-dramas don’t consider it as a plot anymore and have redirected to ‘contract’ marriage. But this is what ultimately occurs when you’re classified as the top 0.1 percent of Korea’s social ladder, and when your parents aren’t as liberal or open-minded as they campaign to be. He’s glad that Taehyung isn’t the victim to this situation and it’s him instead, because Taehyung is much freer than he is, and it is virtually impossible to chain him to the ground. Seokjin, however, was raised like this – he was tied to this fate. It’d be faster to fall in love with Leejung and just carry on with life instead of sulking over his doom.

It would also be a hell lot easier if Leejung actually kept his word.

In tune, there’s a jingling noise at the entrance, and Seokjin just sits on the floor with a straight face, his little brother’s Oreo cereal advertisement playing on the screen, Taehyung’s doe eyes widening a fraction as his mouth enclosed around the spoon. The door unlocks, and there’s the clunking of boots against marble, as a very tall man – looming over 187 cm – ruffles his own hair as he slugs into the living room.

“Seokjin?” Leejung smiles at him apologetically, “I wasn’t thinking that you’d be waiting for me.”

“I said I would.” Seokjin is unmoving from his spot on the carpet. Taehyung’s ad is replaced with another travel application ad. “And you said you’d come back at twelve.” He glimpses at his fiancé’s bag. “With coffee.”

“I’m really sorry.” Loosening his tie, Leejung combs his gelled hair with his slender fingers, “None of the stores were open, and the convenience store was out of stock of that canned coffee that you drink often.” Seokjin wishes that this apology is genuine. Otherwise, he’d feel totally uncompensated for his effort and exhaustion.

“I need to wake up at seven tomorrow, Jungie.” His meek attempt at the affectionate pet name just deteriorated into a hostile statement. Leejung flinches from his place in the middle of the living room, his jaw slack.

“Then you shouldn’t have waited.”

_Wrong answer, _he mentally gripes, but guards that to himself as the other stomps into the shower. His butt cheeks fucking _hurt, _what the hell _had _he been idly waiting around for, really, the whipped cream and coffee or his fiancé? He just flushed an ideal seven hours of sleep down the drain, never got his coffee, and his fiancé stormed off into the shower and Yoo Leejung took a damned eon to shower, and he reeked of oranges when he was done. Kim Seokjin _abhorred _oranges.

_I’m so stupid. _He climbs into his bed and flings the blanket over his body, slamming the light switch off with his balled fist. _I’m so stupid. Oranges are crappy. They’re the trashiest fruit I ever had; all orange-relevant products in the world should be exterminated for world peace. Strawberries, apples, pears, heck, even durians are better. _He huffs into his pillow, _and honey, I guess. Honey is good. _He doesn’t really linger upon the fact that honey isn’t a fruit, or that that’s the fragrance soaked in RM’s jacket from that night.

He remembers how RM casually continued the conversation, even with Seokjin’s dramatic mood swing after an argument with Leejung. He was so sleek and smooth with it, his dimples twitching as he smiled anxiously and responded to his snarky emotional self. It had to be fucking _illegal _to be that cute, like fuck this RM and his monolids and caveman voice.

_Now that I think about it, how do I send the jacket back? _He sleepily hums into his blanket and shakes his head.

_I’ll figure it out. _

** **

***

Yoongi munches on a package of chips with the label, ‘crunchy, cheesy, finger-lickin' crazy’. It’s not that tasty, in his opinion, but he’s starving and craving pizza and according to the deliveryman, it was going to take another forty minutes or so. Namjoon is in the tub, humming some cursed song that is so off-pitch that he can’t recognize its melody at all. “Joonie shut the fuck up!” He hollers with a mouthful of crumbs, as Namjoon muffles something incoherent back.

Approximately ten minutes later, his friend saunters out of the bathroom, rivulets of water streaming down his back and with a sad pout. “It was _Red Velvet, _hyung, it was Russian Roulette, how could you?”

“Well, I was _this _much away from murdering you in a session of Russian roulette so consider yourself saved.” Leaving a slight gap between his index and thumb, he scoffs. Namjoon plugs in his blow dryer and towels his saturated locks, as Yoongi flickers back and forth between hundreds of channels.

“Ah, right, hyung?”

“Hmm?”

“Since when did you have a boyfriend?”

“What the fuck, _no_.”

“It’s all over the ward’s board news, you don’t have to deny it.”

_I think I know where this is going. _“Oh yeah? What the hell are they prattling on about now?”

“About how you snagged a golden-scaled fish from the ocean, of course.”

“Golden-scaled fish?” He scrunches up his nose, “Make that Kim Taehyung.”

Namjoon stifles a laugh through the vacuuming noise of the blow dryer, “So, how _is _he really? You should’ve been at hall, hyung, it was chaos – they were going on and on about how they eavesdropped that you managed to convince the guy to pay you ten million for a kiss, that you’ve gone on a date to Namsan tower and there were actual romantic feelings involved, yada, yada.”

Yoongi grimaces at just how far-fetched those estimates are. The chips are suddenly too salty for his palate, and he shoves the bag to Namjoon, who fumbles for it with his free hand. “We haven’t gone to Namsan,” Is all he confirms, because his brain is now flooded with images of Kim Taehyung. Kim Taehyung is a keeper for ordinary people – he’s handsome, tall, social, friendly, and has just about everything for the Perfect Bachelor checklist. If Min Yoongi from his broke ass college days, struggling in a sea of projects and parent problems, encountered Kim Taehyung, he would’ve fallen for him just like any other, the only fault being that he was younger – and Yoongi wasn’t into younger guys. But this is Kim Taehyung, so that can slide for once.

The fact and reality are, however, that he’s now Suga, the escort of BigHit, with a bleak perspective on the motion of life and systematics of the world, his least favorite phrase being ‘I love you’ and with one barely maintained friendship. He lost his dream, his family, his friends, his hometown, and himself. The only rope he could latch onto now was his job, which fed him and kept him breathing. And his job wasn’t as spacious or merciful to permit a Kim Taehyung into its boundaries.

So he shuts the light out of his vision, inhales, and chokes down the butterflies and warmth, rubs his palm roughly against his clothes, and throws his head back on the cushions of the sofa.

Maybe, emotions could suffocate to death as well.

He hopes.


	5. A Night to Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seokjin is an asshole with reasons and Yoongi lives a night to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seokjin is an asshole in this chapter, to be frank, and uses some derogatory terms. He has his reasoning, not that it justifies his actions, but please try to empathize with him as the story continues. Otherwise, please enjoy this chapter!
> 
> P.S.  
Thank you so much lunaticbase, for always supporting me each chapter. You don't know how much you keep me motivated. Of course, this applies to all my other lovely readers and those that left kudos and commented as well. I love you all <333

“Come _on,_ RM.”

Kim Namjoon, over the course of twenty-six living years, has three immense regrets.

One, for ever listening to that Epik High CD that his cousin lent him when he was in sixth grade. Two, for confessing to his parents about his occupation after he graduated from university. And three, for trusting Taemin.

Number three is in progress.

It’s why he’s in meeting room 301, with one very jumpy Jung Hoseok kicking his feet across him, as he is contemplating over his life choices and where exactly everything began to go downhill. He should’ve realized that something was fishy when Taemin almost spat out his coffee as Namjoon selected the folder at random. He had awful luck, perpetually lost every game of rock-paper-scissors, so why had he concluded that choosing his assignment at random was a magnificent idea?

“This is destiny.” Hoseok declares with a very smug sneer, “We’re meant to be.”

Destiny is Kim Namjoon’s arch-nemesis.

“We are _not _meant to be,” He debates as he presses his knuckles against his temple, “And why is it that you’re _always _at parties? Are you actually connected to the whole aristocratic population of South Korea? The entire chaebol showbiz world?”

“I _mean_,” Popping his mouth, Hoseok licks the inside of his cheek. “You’re not wrong, per se. I kind of _have to be _connected with everyone, it’s a bulletpoint on my job description.” Namjoon must’ve worn a dubious expression, because the man snorts, “I’m serious. I’m a party person, a true free spirit, but it just so happens that my boss also has to be present at all these social meets. A real mogul, he is.”

“Oh yeah?” Namjoon vaguely remembered Hoseok chattering off about his ‘boss’ in their previous appointment. “Who’s your boss? The CEO of Samsung?”

“Pretty close. You’ll get him soon enough.”

Fiddling with his sleeve, Namjoon confesses, “I’m just going to put it out there that I’m terrible at parties.” Hoseok’s lips pop in surprise at that.

“Really? I mean, I guess I kind of had a hunch, but wow. You were pretty smooth about our last one, so I assumed…”

“Well, acting is a critical element of my career.” Throughout the past couple of years, he wore hundreds of masks as other people, each and every one intricately crafted for the occasion. His characters had detailed backstories and credible personalities, and he blended in well with the atmosphere he was pushed into. “That doesn’t necessarily indicate that I’m elated about it.”

Hoseok scrutinizes him soundlessly, as if he were meeting him for the first time. “I see. I can imagine how that must be like. A pain, huh?”

A wry smile perks upward, “Depends, to be frank. Some are actually quite… pleasant.” His client tilts his head curiously, gesturing him to go on, “Well, I had a twenty-year-old girl assigned, once. She was diagnosed with lung cancer and had around two weeks left, at best. She said she never dated before, because her parents were so crazed about academics and college – and never her health or personal wellbeing. It wasn’t much, just one date. I took her to some cutesy accessory store, bought her a bracelet, went to some refined Japanese restaurant for dinner, and held her hand. At the very end of the day, when it was all over, she hugged me really tight and thanked me for what I’ve done. She died a week and a half later, and I went to her funeral.” He’s not certain as of why he’s relating this tale to Hoseok – this was two years ago, when he was still relatively new to BigHit. He could still recall the girl as vividly as yesterday; she wore a wig of platinum blond hair, a blinding grin on her ashen face as she trotted through the streets, even as she shook on her feet. Her name was Mina. “I felt honored to gift her with that experience. I have a never-ending list of jobs I wish I’d never taken, but that one? I’ll do it again and again, no matter what happens.”

The Jung’s orbs are glistening as he pulls his lips into a thin line. Namjoon doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he offers a handkerchief – but the former simply reaches for his own stuff in his pocket. By now, he had wrapped his brain around the fact that Jung Hoseok was a person that could sympathize with anyone on the planet, and was just… genuinely nice. It’s a rare quality, Namjoon believes.

“You know,” Hoseok croaks after a round of sniffling, “I was prejudiced. About escorts, I mean. And I have my reasons and all, but,” He swats his hand in this pitiful manner, flailing back and forth, “Yeah, I’m sorry. You’re… you’re different. You seem like a decent person, RM. Thank you for telling me that fucking beautiful story.”

He scavenges for the falseness lining that statement, but there’s none. Hoseok was being genuine, as always. That has Namjoon’s demeanor crumbling – how long has it been since anyone has validated him like this? Years, probably, after Yoongi. And even then, Yoongi was an escort, too. His tongue grazes his tooth as he lowers his attention to the portfolio in his grasp. He came to this meeting with the intention of rejecting Hoseok’s task, with the complete strategy to finally utilize his Transfer ticket to switch to another assignment – but man, he’s fucking _weak. _It feels good to be viewed as a person, not as who you pretend to be.

“… The party,” He squeezes it out of his lungs, “What’s the date?”

Hoseok wipes a stray tear, “Ah, don’t bother. I can charge into that damned social meet alone for once, it doesn’t matter. I like you, and I don’t torture people that I like unless it’s mandatory. You do you, RM, I’ll solve this.”

_Why does he have to be such a great person? _Namjoon literally has never met someone kinder and more altruistic than Jung Hoseok, and he has met a _lot_ of people in his lifetime. “No, I’m serious too. I’m responsible for this, anyway – and I can’t always do what I want to. It’s life.”

With a skeptical frown, Hoseok asks, “You sure? I’m really okay with not having a partner, you don’t have to do this. I mean, I can’t outright claim that I had no ulterior motive at all, so.”

“… Ulterior motive?”

The man smirks triumphantly, and a cold pool of water trickles into Namjoon’s stomach. “Specifically stuff that involves my boss. You said you’d take responsibility, correct?” And, shit. Maybe this was his scheme all along. Maybe Jung Hoseok was cunning, and Kim Namjoon had danced around like a puppet controlled by strings under his watch. Fuck, and he had an IQ of 148.

He should’ve backed out then. Instead, his intelligent mind supplies him with one question:

“Who’s your boss?”

Hoseok gathers his belongings and breathes in, but he can sense the underlying sneer of the male. Namjoon should’ve never, never, never trusted Taemin when the latter promised him that it was going to be an easy task, an easy client.

“Kim Seokjin.”

_Kim Seokjin. _

The one that had drunkenly belittled escorts, cursed the universe for all he cared, stole Namjoon’s pork skin, got shitfaced on half a bottle of soju, somehow still had the most perfect hair after all that fuckery, Kim Seokjin?

“Party’s on May 7th. I’ll text the address through your Head Escort. See you there!”

And amidst all that whirlpool of information, one floating note revolves about his ears.

_He never returned my jacket, that bastard. _

***

Seokjin sneezes in the middle of signing off paperwork, and moans a little. Maybe he’s catching the flu – May is his least favorite month. It’s when spring collapses, when temperatures increase and rainstorms hit the country, exacerbated by global warming and the chaos around climate change. He and his ex broke up in May, he failed a major test in May, he caught the worst fever in May, etc. The only fortunate event that had ever occurred in May was when Taehyung had been thrust into his family. That’s the sole blissful, wonderful memory he has of the month. Nothing else.

His phone buzzes right then, as he messily scribbles his pen across the sheet of paper, his writing barely legible.

** _Leejungie_ **

_Hey_

_I’m really sorry to tell you like this but_

_I don’t think I can make it to the social meet on the 7th_

_Emergency business_

He gapes at the screen in disbelief. He blinks once, twice, hoping that would magically alter the print on the phone, that it would quell the throbbing in his chest. But it doesn’t. With a stuttered sigh, he picks up the device and types, deletes, types, and deletes his message, conflicted on how to reply to this.

** **

** _You_ **

_Why?_

_You said_

_That you could_

** _Leejungie_ **

_I know_

_Look I’m so sorry_

_It’s gonna look fucking bad, isn’t it_

Fucking bad? _Just bad_? Seokjin chuckles, shaking his head like a maniac. The first son of the host, the heir to the Kim Collective, was going to be the only person at the party without a partner – without his fiancé, to top that. His father’s reputation wouldn’t be as tainted as his pride – what kind of heir was he, to have his fiancé abandon him at a major family event? God, he couldn’t. He traces back to that conversation in the dining hall with his parents and Taehyung, Jungkook in the corner guarding the door with a stoic expression. His mother had suggested to let Taehyung partner up with this prim and proper girl from some prestigious family that manufactured _plates, _but his little brother had refused with a rectangular smile, saying he already had one.

Seokjin, his meddlesome nature winning over, had poked at his brother and jokingly pried who the lucky person was. His brother flushed into the shade of their velvet curtains, squirmed nervously, which only further piqued his interest. ‘_Come on Tae, you can tell me,’ _he teased endlessly, and finally the boy raised his arms.

_‘His name is Suga – he’s an escort.’_

And the older Kim froze. He had some speech readied before, a congratulatory remark to his beloved brother, who had wandered about without a partner at parties – which would’ve been fine if Taehyung was aloof like Jungkook, indifferent – but he wasn’t. Seokjin knew how much Taehyung longed for touch, for relationships, for people. But this was an escort – that escort Taehyung had been obsessed over. He desperately wished that it were a phase – that Taehyung would move on, but his gut screamed at him that this wasn’t like that. Taehyung wasn’t going to move on.

Escorts hurt. Escorts were sweet, like candied apples and chocolate cake. They melted into Seokjin tenderly, cascaded down his skin as if they’d stay, and suddenly set Seokjin’s veins aflame and evaporated into nothingness, leaving scorching hot burn marks and scars in the form of unforgettable memories. All escorts hurt, all escorts were the same, and Seokjin had prayed that his brother wouldn’t have to experience that cycle of pain, of solitude, of grotesque darkness. Seokjin despised how he found himself gravitating towards them, just like that man of honey, that man that chewed on that damned pork skin and listened to Seokjin’s pissed tirade with that neutral but non-judgmental nod. He hated escorts.

He didn’t stop Taehyung, though. He couldn’t. He saw too much of him in the boy, despite that they were never truly related by blood. Or maybe they were, in some alternate universe. But the stars in Taehyung resembled his own adoration and love from years ago, and Seokjin didn’t have the heart to scold him for it. So he didn’t.

And now, he lost his partner. Taehyung had an escort, at least. He didn’t.

** _You_ **

_You really can’t?_

_No matter what?_

He doesn’t love Leejung. But this is an issue that transcends beyond that emotion – he needed Leejung there. He needed someone to root him. Someone to remind him that he’s in reality.

** _Leejungie_ **

_Sorry_

Suppressing the overwhelming urge to hurl his phone out the window, Seokjin arches his back against his chair, and ponders over how to break this news to his parents. He knew his mother basked in the glory of his son and his ideal marriage, the match made in heaven, fighting the recently combated views of LGBT relationships in Korea, yada, yada. It’s so ironic, how his parents act so liberal, so understanding, when in truth they possess the most traditional mindsets. How they were aware that Taehyung was more capable, more eager, but couldn’t afford to have him inherit the company because he wasn’t their son, not by blood, anyway; how they hugged Seokjin when he came out, but catapulted him into an arranged marriage he never desired.

It’s excruciating, at the very least.

He heaves a sigh, and then glances sideways at the jacket hanging over his coat. With a quick lash of his arm, he yanks the clothing from its branch and throws it over his face, like he had been doing for the past two weeks when he was too stressed to even breathe.

The gentle honey has long faded, rubbed into Seokjin’s lotion-covered face too many times. But even without the saccharine fragrance, he is calmed, reminiscent of the happenings of that evening. RM’s reverberating voice, comforting words, solid nods, and unwavering gaze – Seokjin knows he’s drawn into them.

He despises escorts, because escorts hurt. Escorts burn, escorts shattered his heart, and he doesn’t deserve a rerun of that devastating film.

And yet, here he is, being coaxed by some cheap jacket that an escort lent him.

He’s a fucking hypocrite, and he hates that, too.

***

Yoongi was stunned when Taehyung had submitted an authentic- well, not authentic, but the most typical assignment he could perform as an escort for once. Not the casual dates, not the coffee over conversations, but an actual assignment that he had done for others. The Kim had explained that it was his father’s annual social meet with his acquaintances and other families, and he was required to bring a partner along. Yoongi couldn’t see how he was the most fitting candidate – weren’t there other girls lined up, or even guys? Taehyung had never explicitly announced his sexuality unlike Park Jimin, so Yoongi had no idea.

_‘I guess you’ve grown on me,’ _Taehyung had sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, his puppy aura magnifying as he pleaded, _‘I really don’t want to walk in with some stranger, hyung. She wants to set me up with this demure heiress of some plate- bleh, I don’t even know.’ _Yoongi denied the invitation, although his heart did ache and soar simultaneously as he pictured Taehyung with some fashionably dressed lady, her smooth arm linked in his – but Taehyung’s reluctance to do it also ringing.

_‘What if people recognize me?’ _Yoongi shrewdly challenged; there was no escape from his previous clients – he had been to a handful of parties himself, and albeit the social circles never intertwining, he couldn’t ascertain whether it’d be the same at Kim Seokhoon’s either. _‘You’re Kim Taehyung, and I think you forget that often. You have a reputation to sustain and work in a precarious field, risked by filthy rumors and swayed by the slip of a person’s careless tongue.’ _

Taehyung had given him a funny look right then. _‘So you do care about me after all,’ _he said – and Yoongi regretted all that he had blurted out instantly. Showing ‘care’ or ‘consideration’ towards a client was what Namjoon conducted, not him. Did he care about Kim Taehyung? _Of course you do, _a voice spoke in Namjoon’s tone of mockery, and the escort muted it out.

_‘You’re currently the source of my rent, of course I care.’ _He dug the pit of guilt in his heart, the burden becoming heavier and harder to manage – because he witnessed the flash of acrimony in the grimace of Taehyung. It’s a lie, they both noticed, because Yoongi always had a source for his rent. He could always supplant Taehyung with someone else – someone more convenient, someone less inquisitive, someone less talkative. But he didn’t, of course. He never had a valid reason to do so, anyway.

_‘To answer your argument,’ _Taehyung parted, _‘I never forget about my position – and I also don’t want you to forget that your occupation or the character of your job doesn’t make you a filthy person, Suga. I’m not ashamed of you.’ _

Why did Kim Taehyung have to utter everything that was sweet and addicting to hear?

Completely robbed of any rejoinder, he had obliged and pegged for the specific date of the meet. Somewhere in between, Taehyung reminded him of the cost of the assignment – two million? No, maybe two-point-five – and Yoongi merely nodded, uninterested.

It was when he regressed home that he received a message from Namjoon that he was tagging along with Jung Hoseok to the party as well. That was new, because Yoongi and Namjoon had never bumped into each other in the midst of an assignment. Baekhyun and Chanyeol planned it all out beforehand, but they weren’t Baekhyun or Chanyeol.

_“Jung Hoseok’s boss is Kim Seokjin,” _Namjoon rumbles over the phone, dread transparent in his drawl, as Yoongi snuggles into the plush mattress of his bed.

“Huh, really. The guy that was sprawled over and drunk at our usual place?”

_“Mm. You know, he fucking hogged my jacket. It was my favorite one.”_

“More like you very affectionately draped it over his shoulders – I was present at the scene too, Joonie.”

_“He doesn’t like escorts.”_

“Nothing surprising about that,” It dawns upon him that Taehyung and Seokjin are supposedly brothers, right then. It’s entertaining how Taehyung seems to be the polar opposite of the older Kim. “And he obviously enjoyed the companionship if he ate pork skin with you.”

_“… I think he’s kind of moody. Bipolar? He’s like a respiring rollercoaster attraction, hyung, polite and then wild.”_

“Aren’t you into those types?”

Quiet.

_“’M not.” _

“Right, of course. I’m guessing you’ve done a wholesome Google search on him already.”

_“Did you know that he donates ten million won annually to an organization that is dedicated to saving injured turtles that have plastic straws up their nostrils?”_

“You’re contradicting yourself here, Joon.”

_“Turtles, hyung, he saves fuckin’ turtles. That’s so damned cute and heartwarming.” _

Yoongi wants to guffaw at his best friend’s mental breakdown. “Cool, what else?”

_“He once said in an interview that he’d die for his brother anytime. Jesus, does he not value his own life?” _

“… Are you _whipped_?”

_“Of course not, don’t even joke about that. He insulted the way I hold my chopsticks, hyung, said it was unhealthy for my joints. I learned it from my grandfather, from the best. How dare he, you know?” _

It sounds really domestic, something a housewife would nag about to her husband. Yoongi doesn’t mention that. “You must be really invested if you’ve gone to this extent, Joon-ah.” Namjoon isn’t a person that can be so swiftly roused or riled. For Seokjin to succeed in that feat – he must be quite special, too. Perhaps that’s an innate quality of the Kims.

_“I’m not invested. He’s a noisy drunk, and has that sagacious attitude as if he’s achieved nirvana and has reincarnated nine times. I don’t like him.” _

“Sure you do.”

Sensing Yoongi’s doubt over the phone, Namjoon pouts, _“Fine, be that way. I’ll find out at the party.” _And he hangs up.

The thing is, the two of them had no idea just how much of their world would shift on its axis afterward – just how much three hours could transform their gray lives.

The cogs have already begun to spin.

***

A wave of déjà vu inundates the shore of his mind as he stands in the dimly lit mansion. Hoseok is to his left, in a rose-patterned indigo blazer and a white silk shirt, his dress pants gleaming under a navy spotlight from above, and a silver crux necklace dangling in the center of his chest. Namjoon had shoveled into his wardrobe for his prized dark red Topman suit and some black dress shirt he hadn’t worn since college and hadn’t even settled for any accessories. Yoongi was in here somewhere too, in his all-obsidian tux and thin golden choker, his hair actually styled for once. Seokjin was nowhere to be seen, though, and Hoseok hadn’t brought up his boss’s whereabouts throughout the drive or their journey through the extensive and shiny corridor of the Kims’ mansion.

_Is that Jeon Jihyun, in the flesh? Fucking god, she really does look like that, even without photoshop. _Namjoon’s eyes dart around, despite the poor lighting of the vicinity – there are a few individuals that frequently appear in the headlines, some that are mentioned in passing in some scandals, and also others that are very much esteemed and respected in society. Hoseok spots his antsy behavior and giggles a little. “I know, it’s unbelievable. I took a full-fledged year to adjust as well. Jeon Jihyun is so gorgeous, isn’t she?”

“Well, yeah- I mean, she’s delivered two kids already, what even. I don’t think I’ll ever adjust to this.”

“You will, eventually. It becomes evident that they’re fellow humans, just like us, not some alien species.” Hoseok shrugs it off, looking straight ahead towards the circular podium in the middle. “They have weaknesses, they have strengths – it’s just not as simple, because you have to travel past the TV screen, past the façade, unlike ordinary human interactions.”

Namjoon reassesses the secretary, impressed. “That’s pretty deep.”

Hoseok muffles his laughter with his sleeved wrist, “I just like to sound insightful. And to be fair, you’re awed by celebrities and models and stuff, but you’re just as mythical to me as they are to you. Escorts are so… detached, you know? I’m certain that the only one the expanse of this country knows is Kim Heechul.”

“Oh, Heechul-sunbae is a legend, even for us.” He still hears stories about the day the man stormed out of the building, his boyfriend by his arm with a bragging sneer, as if to shout to the world – ‘fuck you all’. Namjoon yearns to be half as brave. “He’s an exceptional case, and though it’s a taboo to mention him, we all respect the guy to high degrees. It’s almost impossible to escape this industry by force.”

“Really?” Hoseok doesn’t turn to him; there’s a lanky man in a white suit on the podium, his mouth pulled up into a greasy smile and his potbelly round, stuck out from the constraint of his leather belt, as he scanned the guests. “That’s Kim Soojin, Seokjin and Taehyung’s uncle. His ultimate skill is to spout bullshit, so don’t listen to him. It’ll rot your ears.” Soojin introduces himself on the stage, his Seoul accent oily and his speech consisting of too many obsolete terms.

“Yeah, it’s a crappy job, in my opinion. Shouldn’t have been lured by the ad,” Namjoon slips casually – he’s technically not allowed to reveal much about his personal history, but Hoseok is too comfortable to converse with. “How is it that he’s genetically related to Kim Seokjin and Kim Taehyung and…” _has the impression of a Cyclops, _is what he intends to say, but Soojin twists on his heel to his direction right then.

“Ah, well, Seokjin’s mother – Woo Yejin – is a beauty.”

He doesn’t miss the detail of how Hoseok emphasizes that it’s ‘Seokjin’s’ mother, and not ‘their’ mother. While it does bring up some questions, he decides that it’s not his place to intrude – this assignment was about Hoseok and not the Kim family. Chaebols or not, everyone had a life and everyone’s life contained problems. It’s a common troupe in dramas too, isn’t it? Brothers are born from two different mothers, conflict ensues, more drama, all that. Kim Soojin bows as he wraps up his introductory speech, and soon another man supplants his spot at the podium.

“That’s Kim Seokhoon.” Hoseok supplies silently, clapping. Kim Seokhoon is what one would label as ‘finely aged’, with wrinkles scattered on his forehead and graying strands of hair visible beneath the illuminating lamp from above. He has charisma, and the manner he observes his audience is a stark contrast from Soojin’s cursory jut of the head – he slowly examines each guest, and Namjoon chills a little when those blazing, wise pupils land on him. He wasn’t the emperor of the Kims for nothing. The sole similarity with his son seems to be the wide shoulders and lean body structure.

“He’s… intimidating.” Namjoon whispers as Seokhoon welcomes everyone with a smile that seems to have the purpose of asserting his authority rather than a greeting. Hoseok bristles as he moves closer to his side.

“He’s an arrogant man that only acknowledges the powerful.”

_There’s a lot of bitterness going on in this household, or is it just me? _“You describe it as if there’s nobody amicable amongst the Kims.”

The Jung doesn’t respond for a while, fixated on the podium. “… Well, Seokjin and Taehyung are miracles. So is Jungkook, I s’pose. Ah, their aunt is supportive, though. The coolest woman on the planet – she’s a ray of sunshine in the hurricane. The patty in the burger.”

Namjoon purses his lips together, too uninformed to answer. He’s avoided clicking on the top search list of the news for a while because his life was too jam-packed with drama already, and he didn’t need to be stressed about a bunch of rich strangers and their stupidity as well. But Kim Seokjin is intriguing, and Yoongi was having his own trouble with the little Kim too. “… Where’s your boss? Didn’t see him around.”

“I dunno. Handling the aftermath of a battle, most likely. His mother was hysterical about- ah. Confidential information, oops. You can ask him yourself.” Hoseok winks at him with finger guns, earning a scowl from Namjoon. He doesn’t want to appear like he’s remotely triggered by Seokjin and his complicated family history, because Seokjin would probably pop out of nowhere and accuse him of being this stalker escort; quoting Seokjin, he’d be a ‘disgusting, abominable imbecile that tricks people with dimpled smiles and sugared compliments’. Not that he’s offended or anything – in fact, it’s rather invigorating to have someone with such overflowing display of raw emotions and hatred.

Eventually, Kim Seokhoon dismisses them with an ‘I sincerely thank you all for coming once again’, and the horde of people disintegrates and divides into smaller subgroups. Namjoon turns to Hoseok, who says, “Do you want a tour? Or maybe just explore on your own – you seem like you’d be into that. If anyone is nosy and crap just cut ‘em off and explain that you’re here with me, and they won’t pry further.”

“Oh? So you secretly wield some authority, don’t you?”

Hoseok clucks his tongue, “I wish. Nobody’s interested in some secretary’s love life, RM. Would you be, if you were breathing the same air as Jeon Jihyun in a five-meter radius?”

“Ah, valid point.” Namjoon concedes, but the lurking query in his brain still remains. “Wait, couldn’t you have just requested a friend or someone to accompany you? Didn’t have to be me, right?”

“I guess not, but it’s more convenient this way. Not many of my friends are civilized enough to be here, some are rivals with the Kims, and others are the core of gossip and scandals in the media. Maybe Jiminie, but he has an important rehearsal for this musical he’s in.” Namjoon wonders just what kind of friends Hoseok has, but then refers back to the birthday party, and it makes sense. “And it’s less petrifying for you too, isn’t it? Your friend is lurching around here somewhere, so at least you aren’t alone.”

“Where did you learn _that_?”

“Tsk, I got my sources. I’m not Seokjin’s secretary for my acrobatic skills, you see.” Hoseok flickers down on his watch, and scratches his head. “I’ll meet you in an hour on the balcony on the second floor. There’s someone that wants to negotiate with Seokjin about a proposal, and I have to mediate. Such a fucking hassle, in my opinion – the proposal ain’t even that great.” Namjoon offers a sympathetic shrug, in which Hoseok skitters off with a sway of his arm and reminder of their meeting location.

The escort exhales as he clenches and unclenches his loose fists. Perhaps he should seek out for Yoongi – no, actually, screw that. Yoongi was with that Taehyung lad, and as far as Namjoon could read, Yoongi was developing feelings for him, and that was just _impossible. _But it’s a thing, and Namjoon can tolerate and accept that. So not the Yoongi plan, then. Upstarting a random conversation with the others wouldn’t be ideal, because then he’d have to forge a new identity on the spot, and he couldn’t afford to be too exposed; he’s not as confident as his “diamond digger” friend.

He loiters around the first floor, noticing that the interior design of the Kims leaned towards a much more modernistic style, with creamy white walls and chic lamps, not the chandeliers and Roman pillars that Namjoon had seen in Korean chaebol dramas. There are rows of rooms and he can infer that most of them are unoccupied and locked. A butler in his uniform nods at him cordially as he passes with a cart of cocktails and plates of tapas, and there’s a food critic that Namjoon occasionally saw on TV with a glass of red wine in between his fingers. Nothing particularly stands out to him, sans the transparent boxes on wooden tables in the corridor – there were ancient jade statues and intricately patterned platters inside. Namjoon enjoyed admiring artifacts like this – it was exciting to trace back an object’s story, which lived much longer than humans.

_Holy crap, there’s a fucking crown, _he gapes at the shiny golden crown in the transparent box, approximately thirty centimeters tall traditional carvings engraved on the surface. It’s well preserved and shimmers under the glow of light on the ceiling, and Namjoon estimates the period it could be from. During the reign of the three kingdoms? No, perhaps it was from the Joseon era. Or –

“That was a gift to my ancestor in the Joseon dynasty,” A very familiar voice explicates, and Namjoon stumbles on his heels. To his right is Kim Seokjin, with a neatly tailored burgundy suit and sapphire stud cufflinks, his hair calmer than the state it was at the barbeque diner. He smells faintly of apples and peaches, not too sweet but also not too citric. _What the fuck is he doing here, _runs through his mind, until he comments to himself that this is Seokjin’s house and he could be wherever he pleases. “My ancestor was the most trusted advisor of the king, you see – but in truth, he plotted to overthrow his throne and assassinate his children, all that classic Korean historical drama trash. He never accomplished his objective of course, but he had some goldsmith that he was a friend with. The guy crafted this crown for him, as some slipshod replacement for his goal.”

“Huh,” His heart is pounding rapidly and blood is pumping in his ears, but he feigns his dispassionate exterior. “I’m impressed that it wasn’t stolen or destroyed during the colonization.”

Seokjin chortles sardonically, “My great, great, great whatever grandfather bribed the Japanese soldiers. So patriotic.”

“I’m sure the majority puts their survival on the line first, not the dignity of their mother country.” Namjoon appeases and then tears his gaze away from the crown. “And your partner?” The man winces a little – or seems to, Namjoon isn’t certain – and proceeds to tongue his cheek.

“What about my partner?”

“Hoseok-ssi told me that everyone was required to bring one, hence why I’m present.” Namjoon can see Seokjin’s placid face hardening, and there’s another alarm ringing inside him – _fuck, is this another landmine? _He’s about to retract his question when Seokjin grumbles,

“He’s not available today. I’m here on my own, with me, and myself.”

“… Oh.”

“Right, oh.” _Fuck, I always say the wrong things around this dude, _“It’s laughable, really. Even my brother has a partner this year, escort or not.” ‘Escort’ is enunciated with much pressure, and Seokjin grits his teeth. “I can’t fucking believe myself.”

“Your brother is with an escort,” He reiterates, and Seokjin eyes him exasperatedly. “I don’t have an issue with that.”

“Of course _you _don’t because this isn’t your brother. And out of all escorts, it had to be _Gloss_? Ah, he said he’s Suga now, right. My memory fails me these days,” Seokjin spits with venom, and Namjoon frowns upon that. How does Seokjin know Yoongi’s former alias? Gloss was the codename he went by when he was affiliated with the S ward, and that was ages ago. The heir comprehends his bewilderment, and snorts, “Please, I’ve been pretty involved in your industry as well. The ‘diamond digger’ was infamous for his… _promiscuity_.”

Namjoon is at loss for how to defend his friend – it’s true, Yoongi was quite the hot topic then. What he didn’t approve was how Seokjin made it sound as if he were _dirty_, filthy, and immoral. The escorts in the S ward were free to have sexual intercourse with their clients, but that didn’t degrade their value as humans or granted anyone the right to belittle them for their actions. “You seem to be implying something more than that.”

Seokjin huffs, his glare somewhat distant, “I think anyone would be concerned if their sibling was associating with some prostitute that spreads their legs for anyone willing to throw cash at them.”

For a second, Namjoon is convinced that he’s misheard – because while Seokjin had communicated on multiple occasions that he despised escorts, he hadn’t explicitly expressed that he felt escorts were something _less. _But the man is still glaring at him with steel, and although Namjoon so desperately wants to tell himself that Seokjin has his reasons, he can’t; Seokjin didn’t insult or devalue just any escort, he demeaned _Yoongi. _He was ignorant about the sheer amount of shit that Yoongi had to endure, about why he even chose to become an escort, and just how much he lost in the process. Yoongi had lost so much more than Namjoon, and though he never showed it, the younger was always fearful that the other would slip away from him. It was only recently that Yoongi had begun to brighten up, giddy when he returned from a date with Taehyung. He’s finally found a sliver of happiness in his life – and who was Seokjin to crush that to pieces?

He controls the ball of anger that builds up in his throat and growls, “Do _not_ speak lightly of him.” Seokjin flinches, a fleeting quiver – was that guilt? It doesn’t matter – rushes past his pale face, “You don’t _know _him, you’ve never even seen him before, never had a proper interaction to _degrade_ him like that. If that is the impression you had because of me, then I will accept, as long as it is focused on me. Do not _dare_ impose your generalizations on others.” The chaebol sucks in a stuttered breath, his palm clutching his torso as if he were punched in the gut. _Serves him right. _“We’ve talked enough. Please have a nice rest of your day.”

Seokjin doesn’t stop him, and Namjoon trudges away, his shoulders spread wide and his fists by his sides.

_Serves him right. _

***

The moon is a crescent moon tonight.

It’s rather beautiful, he must say – or as beautiful as a moon in Seoul can be. He remembers his grandmother’s hut in the outskirts of Daegu, in a pipsqueak rural village with no name. He’d nap in the back of his father’s dump truck, sweating waterfalls as he fanned himself, the air conditioner wrecked. His brother always leaped down from the vehicle at the rest stop, sprinted to the nearest convenience store, and came back to the truck with a plastic bag of ice cream – Yoongi’s favorite was the grape soda flavored one, and his brother’s was the strawberry screw bar. His grandmother would embrace them when they arrived, waiting in front of the battered blue gates of her house, and inside there was a large table with every centimeter of it occupied with a dish. Yoongi adored her spicy fish stew and cabbage _jeons – _nobody could nail the taste as his lovely grandmother did.

In truth, her exact features are waning from his memory. She was a strict woman – he and his brother would get chastised for their manners with elders, or for lounging about on the porch when it was a fine, sunny morning. The burn scar on her arm spoke volumes about her history, about how she lost her husband during the harsh wartimes, and also how she coursed through that field of thorns to raise her children and live. By no means was she pretty; she had cuts on her face and a permanently scrunched nose, with wrinkled fingers and gray nails. But she’d let him plop down in her folded legs as he fondled with the ripped portion of her hanbok dress, and related tales from the skirmishes with the government officials – _“I whacked that dastardly soldier on his no-good head with a pan. He was raising his hand on a kid, what could I do? People that hit children are trash, Yoongi, do you understand? So are people that do not respect the freedom of others. If you meet such people or come across a situation as such, you will whack them on the head, very hard.” _He had peered up and asked, ‘Is that what a Min does?’ because that was his father’s catchphrase – ‘that’s what a Min does’. His grandmother, however, raked her nails through his short hair and said, _“No, Yoongi. It’s because you’re brave. You’ve always been the bravest child – _my_ bravest child.” _She smirked at him coolly, _“But this is a secret between you and me. Don’t want your brother to get jealous, hm?” _

Something bloomed in his tiny chest then, as he admired the stars and crescent moon with his grandmother that night. He was brave. He was the bravest – _halmeoni’s _bravest.

Now, he’s proven that his grandmother was wrong – because he doesn’t even have the courage to break down his walls for Taehyung.

They’re at the rooftop garden. Normally, Taehyung explained that it was locked, but he obtained the keys especially for Yoongi – said it was the best spot to see the moon. It really is – this is the clearest moon he’s witnessed in ages, ever since he left Daegu. Taehyung is watching with him on the bench, and Yoongi has a purple blanket on his thighs, only because Taehyung insisted that it’s cold at night.

“It’s… pretty.” Yoongi gulps, fixing his attention on the moon. “I like it. I… used to stargaze a lot.” It had been one of his fervent hobbies alongside composing music and writing lyrics; his father admonished that it was far too feminine, that only girls went to planetariums and read about horoscopes and stars. He never really gave two shits about what his father spurted, because the man was stuck-up and offensively traditional that way.

_Odd, _he notes, it’s been forever since he’s thought about his family.

“Really? You don’t seem like a very… ‘stargazing’ person.”

Yoongi chortles, “What does a stargazing person even look like?”

“Well, I wouldn’t assume that someone who already has the constellations sewn in their eyes would take pleasure in stargazing, is all.” Taehyung sends him a mischievous grin, and Yoongi blazes red at his flirtatious tactics. Had this kid no _shame_? “Oops, you’re the color of tomatoes now. Too cheesy? Maybe I should’ve said something else.”

After composing himself, he shoots back, “I don’t have fucking constellations in my eyes, Taehyung.”

“Hm, to be fair, I’m sure you don’t judge yourself as highly as I do.”

“I’ve been told a lot of things, but never _constellations _in my eyes.”

“I can be your first, then.” This brat. This cocky _brat_. Yoongi would’ve bashed his face into a pavement if it weren’t so damned perfect. It would be the greatest loss of Earth’s aesthetic if Kim Taehyung’s face were to be ruined. His pointy nose couldn’t be one of Korean heritage – he had a fucking _button _nose, for Pete’s sake – and his smooth yet structured jawline is a feature that he can’t ever dream of. He’s often convinced that he’d lose himself in Taehyung, in his godly appearance and Apollo smile. His brother, Kim Seokjin, a figure that he’d see in economics articles, was eminent in the field of ‘handsomeness’ as well – it had to be the genes. Funny, because Yoongi never took after his parents.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Taehyung hums, a hushed ‘maybe’ spilling from him as he turned back to the moon in the sky. Well, to be honest, he didn’t think that Taehyung resembled Kim Seokhoon either. Maybe it was his mother – they’d say that the second child took after the mother. What was Taehyung’s mother like? Were chaebols really as ostentatious and pretentious as the dramas portrayed? Taehyung wasn’t, but Taehyung was special. What was his childhood like? They bumped into each other in a treehouse, so was that where Taehyung played with his friends? He imagines a little Taehyung, squealing as he climbed the rope ladder and carelessly hid his toys in boxes. … _Fuck, it’s kind of cute_.

“Suga?” He’s jerked out of the fantasy as Taehyung addresses him, “Are you alright? You were zoning out.”

_Fuck. _What is he doing? Clients were clients, and work was work. Escorts just needed to accomplish the task at hand; they didn’t have to be curious about some client’s life and personal history. It’s not his business – Taehyung’s childhood, family, friends, likes and dislikes – that’s none of his business. It had to be the moon. The moon was making him nostalgic, dragging him back into his past, to his grandmother and his father and brother, to a place where he no longer belonged. To Taehyung, where he couldn’t and would never belong.

Dangerous.

“Just,” He’s in frenzy, sorting out the leak in his mind as he staggered for a remedy. “It’s been a long night.”

“Hm,” Taehyung eyes him, “I heard you went to parties a lot, though. I presumed you were suited for them.”

Yoongi frowns. “Who told you that?”

“Taemin-ssi.”

“Of course.” His boss is a blabbermouth. Sometimes he wishes he’s transferred to the B ward; at least Taeyang didn’t interfere with the life of his employees. “It’s not like I’m suited just because I go to them. Do you have any idea how much some are willing to pay to have a pretty decoration to flaunt?” There’s a ‘no’ written all over the other’s reaction. “Millions. For an ornament – millions. I chose the millions rather than my dignity and pride. That’s all it is.”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything – _of course. _How would anyone respond to that? And who actually cared to such an extent for just some _acquaintance_? Naturally, nobody.

“Are you ashamed of your decision?”

(Or maybe not.)

_What? _He spins around with a twisted curl of his mouth, and sees Taehyung looking directly at him, his round eyes earnest and genuine – soft. He has to absorb the question first – _are you ashamed of your decision? _– had anyone bothered to ask him that, ever? His brother, Joongi, hissed with poison thorns, ‘_you should be ashamed’ _when he broke the news to him. His parents were disappointed in him since the dawn that he had proposed to them that he aspired to become a musician. A handful of the clientele of BigHit sneered at the workforce and spat, ‘_you’re utilizing your shamefulness to your advantage’. _

“No,” He’s been miserable, maybe. But not ashamed. “Never.”

“Then that’s all that matters, right?” Taehyung shrugs nonchalantly, “I believe that everyone leads a unique life. Some chase after happiness, some want longevity, some aspire to achieve their dreams, and for you, you followed the millions. If that’s a choice you’ve made out of your heart, I don’t think I have a right to criticize you for that.”

He doesn’t know how to receive that. Nobody’s ever phrased it that way, after all. Perhaps Namjoon told him something around such lines, but it’s different when you hear it from someone that isn’t an escort – someone that originates from a world miles away.

Kim Taehyung – _what is he? _

He regards the man in a new moonlight. Has Taehyung’s gaze always been so piercing? His midnight locks shimmer in a breathtaking shade of onyx and opal, his lips a mesmerizing tint of coral under the night’s embrace. Captivated, Yoongi can’t help but ask, “What are you chasing after?”

“Hm,” Taehyung purses those lips, thoughtful, “I guess it was to be included, initially. I never felt as if I fit in with the rest of the family. I always needed people around me, someone to prattle to, and someone to deal with my awful whining. And then that evolved into my career as a model, where everyone’s attention was on me – I was the center.” _He’s beautiful, _Yoongi notes, and he thinks this might be the first time that he’s fully acknowledged that fact. Kim Taehyung is the epitome of beauty – Yoongi can’t be dissuaded, at least now, that there’s anyone else more enrapturing than Kim Taehyung on the planet.

“And,” _Get a hold of yourself, Min Yoongi, _“What is it now, then?”

Taehyung slowly – at an almost painful pace – turns to him, at an angle where he’s facing downward at him. Yoongi’s rendered speechless when those dark chocolate orbs target him, like claws and thorns gradually tugging at his sleeves and choking his throat, leading him into a state of insanity and immense high. It’s like drinking nectar – addicting, obsessing, and sweet. So sweet, that it’s suffocating.

The man leans in, his hot breath an inch apart from Yoongi’s puckered mouth, their noses almost touching – he can smell Taehyung’s perfume, which carries the faint aroma of flowers in the rain, soothing and enchanting. Taehyung’s mouth parts, his bottom lip brushing against Yoongi’s upper lip as he spoke, “Who knows,” while looking straight into Yoongi’s very two eyes.

And then Taehyung plants a feathery kiss on Yoongi’s mouth, the sensation brief but tingling – and before Yoongi can regain his conscience, his own hands spring into motion, grasping the back of Taehyung’s smooth neck as he pulls him in closer, pressing his lips back to Taehyung’s, longing for the saccharine taste of the lip balm that the other was wearing. A fierce pool burns within his torso as they deepen the kiss, Taehyung’s tongue grazing against the cavern of his mouth and his fist clutching on to the fabric of Yoongi’s blazer. One of them moans, and Yoongi can’t tell whose it is, as he sucks on the candied skin of Taehyung, desperate and deprived – of what? _Touch? _He lets out a guttural groan as Taehyung strokes the curve of his earlobe – _affection? _– the blanket that once covered his thighs slide off and land on his feet, as he shifts and tilts his head to lessen the already nonexistent distance between them –

_Love?_

His stomach twinges, and there’s a chill that swiftly runs down his spine as it dawns upon him, the glaciating feeling spreading from his bones to his muscles, from the blood in his vessels to his lips that are kissing Taehyung’s warm and wet ones. He doesn’t break away from the kiss, he doesn’t release his grip on Taehyung’s neck, and he doesn’t open his eyes because he’s scared of what else he’ll realize. All that he does remember is how Taehyung looked at him when he said ‘who knows’, how he initiated the kiss, how the boy lit his lungs on fire – as if –

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. _

If this is what he assumes it is, then –

_This night has to be forgotten. _


	6. Love Should be Perfect as Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yoongi avoids Taehyung, Seokjin struggles, and Jimin isn't going to take this Shit anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title inspired by the lyrics of 'Fake Love'! Just a warning, I've written until chapter 8 of this story and there's a very LONG string of angst and pining planned for those chapters. I honestly felt kind of depressed myself as I typed them out. 
> 
> I might also be slightly irregular with updates in the future, with college applications nearing in less than two to three months, so please understand that - hopefully, I'll have enough chapters written so that doesn't happen, but just a heads up. 
> 
> Otherwise, thank you so much for the support shown in the last chapter! It always helps to know that people enjoy the character dynamic of the story. I hope you enjoy this wholesome chapter as well!

_(“How long do we have to go on like this?” _

_“Like what?” _

_“As if I have to share you with others, as if I have to ignore the fact that you roam about our apartment naked with your torso adorned in bruises that aren’t from me, as if I’m just another client you have to serve!” _

_“This is the nature of my job, Seokjin, and if you can’t get over that –“_

_“If I can’t, then what? You’ll break up with me? Is that really how you’re going to avoid this issue?” _

_“Then what else do you expect me to do?”)_

“Seokjin, for the umpteenth time, if I have to call your name _again, _I will crowd all your appointments with the board directors during the damned weekend.”

He shudders as he escapes from his trance, as Hoseok wears a stern expression with countless plastic folders tucked under his arm. Blinking once, then twice, he scans his office haphazardly, “Sorry, what?” His secretary heaves a pained sigh, running his fingers through his neatly combed hair, “And hey, weekends are my only holidays, you can’t do that to me!”

“I can, actually, and I will, if that keeps you from being fired. You’re not going to have a soiled reputation while you’re under my care.” He drops the stack of files onto Seokjin’s disorganized desk with a pointed glare. “Look, I’m hyperaware that you fucked up super big time last night, but you’re an expert at separating your personal life and work. You can construct a heartfelt apology letter after you complete this paperwork for our upcoming project.”

Seokjin stares morosely at the pile of papers. “I don’t even like the project,” He grumbles grudgingly and then freezes. “Wait, how do you even know that I messed up last night?”

“Do you have the memory of a goldfish? I was partnered with RM yesterday; he was fuming with smoke trailing out from his ears when I joined him at the balcony. When I asked him what happened, he said he met an asshole. I pieced two and two together and got four.”

“There were many assholes at that party.”

“Yeah, well,” Hoseok gives a noncommittal shrug, “He drank a little and the dam went loose, like, ‘the fuck, your boss is such a judgmental fuckup, what kind of sick education do rich kids receive, does he even know what my friend had to suffer’, so on and so forth. Don’t worry, no one else eavesdropped, ‘cause we were at the bar area and the bartender was in the storage room.” He then sends Seokjin an unimpressed, maybe a little sympathizing frown. “Seokjin, it’s really uncharacteristic of you to spout crap like that. Were you blabbering out of your ass?”

He doesn’t have an excuse for that. He regretted it the moment the tirade flew from his lips. “I guess having your partner ditch you and your past ram into your self-confidence and esteem do that.” Rueful, he waves his hand in the air. “I wanted to apologize right after, but then he started this entire raging speech and stormed off. I wasn’t even granted an opportunity, Christ’s sake.”

“You didn’t really deserve one right then, you have to admit.” Hoseok shakes his head, his bangs swaying a little. “Wouldn’t you be furious if someone talked about me that way? About Jimin or Jungkook? Or even worse, Taehyung? His reaction was predictable, and you were a sizable dick.”

“Gee, thanks for the reminder. Totally needed it.”

The other grunts as he plops down on the rolling chair across from Seokjin’s massive leather seat, “Not everyone knows you as I do, Seokjin. I understand where your agitation bubbled from, but most people don’t, and RM certainly doesn’t, either. You’re my boss and best friend, and I love you to hell and back, and true friends call out on the shitty mistakes they make. You were an asshole, yes, but you can fix it. No, you _will_ fix it and that’s final.”

Seokjin snorts. “I hate how you’re so sagacious with everything sometimes.”

“_Sometimes? _It’s all the time, hon; you should correct that. Literally, every single elite company and corporation in the country scouted me and I chose you. Therefore, you will be a smart person and do as I tell you. Good?”

“I’m still a year older than you, Seok.”

“Age became meaningless numbers when seventy-year-old grandpas married eighteen-year-old high school graduates and it was true love. You’re two years older than me, and it means absolutely nothing.” Hoseok flicks his fingers as he asserts his point, “Now get to those papers; you’ve made no legitimate progress since eight, and it’s one in the afternoon right now. I’ll drag Jungkook in to guard you if I have to, and don’t even test me on that one.”

“Holy- _fine, _I’ll do it, I’ll do the friggin’ papers, Seokie. Just don’t contact Jungkook.”

“Thought you’d say so.”

He whimpers tearfully at the workload. Jungkook was a nightmare to be with in the office – that kid’s eyes bore into you until you were done with signing every sheet of paper and revising all the proposals and whatnot. The only one that seemed to be an exception to that principle was Jimin, who Jungkook nagged and annoyed but never went further. Swirling his pen over the lines, Seokjin pries his mind away from RM and the fiasco last night. Hoseok is correct – he has to concentrate right now, especially with their new project upstarting.

But then RM’s affronted, resentful face simmers into his brain, imprinted and clear as a diamond, his once-present dimples vanished and a crease sunk between his brows. Kim Seokjin was an adept reader of people, and he could facilely deduce that RM wasn’t the type of person to be irked easily. Hell, he’d dealt with a drunk and salty Seokjin and was courteous enough to call Taehyung’s driver through Suga, most likely. Guilt worms into his gut, his mouth going arid at the memory and the strength in his hand disappearing as seconds passed.

“Hobi?”

“Hmm?”

“How do you apologize to a person that you have absolutely zero information about other than their inconspicuous occupation and elementary codename?”

Hoseok flickers at him as he busily types away on his laptop, infused in the email he was writing. When Seokjin stares at him expectantly and rather longingly, the man finally relents and looks straight at his boss.

“Sincerely, Jin. Like you actually mean it.” His best friend murmurs softly, “And I know you do.”

“Do what?”

“Care. You care. Always.”

_Always. _

Seokjin repeats that internally, lets the word tug him along his daydream for a little more, until he finally resumes to the documents.

***

Yoongi’s morning begins with an ear-splitting ‘_clank’ _from his neighbor’s apartment, where a family of eight lives together, with hardworking and diligent parents that occasionally deliver a packet of freshly baked cookies on Sundays. Their children are little spawns of the devil (he buys them ice cream whenever one of them clasps onto his jeans though, because he’s weak like that) and trample about the house, doing who-knows-what as they scream enthusiastically. This morning is just one of those unfortunate mornings, and he identifies Jinwoo’s high-pitched screech from his siblings’ cackles past the thin wall.

He groans distastefully, glowering at his dirty ceiling. He suppresses the urge to bang on his neighbors’ door and demand their kids to shut the hell up, because he’s exhausted and the Chois were just too nice to him every damned time. He legitimately shouted at them one particular night, when one of their daughters bawled nonstop, and felt bad as the Chois rushed out in panic as they bowed to him countlessly and invited him in for the best dinner he had eaten in ages the next afternoon. He doesn’t want a repeat of that incident.

He tunes out the cacophony as he contemplates the previous night at the party.

So, he kissed Kim Taehyung.

That’s apparently a thing.

And well, Min Yoongi has settled with that already. He kissed so many people throughout his life that he had never bothered to tally the number. Kim Taehyung was a minor addition.

The real problem, perhaps, lies in the part where he sensed that _spark _when he kissed Taehyung; how deep down, he never wanted to let go of the boy’s silky strands of hair and his bare neck. It’s been eons since he kissed anyone like that – since he _kissed, _not merely feeling as though his lips were squashed in someone else’s. No, he _kissed _Taehyung and did a lot more, and that was the predicament at hand.

The attraction was there.

_It shouldn’t be, _Yoongi notes bitterly. When he licks over his chapped lips, he can almost taste the flavor of Taehyung’s lip balm again, sweet with a tinge of mint, and relish in the sensation of the man’s thumb stroking his cheekbone, gentle but passionate. When it all ended, Yoongi had distanced himself from the other, with a muffled, _‘let’s not talk about this’. _Taehyung complied, and if he was hurt, he hid it well. Hours crawled by as they sat there in utter silence, one that was neither awkward nor comfortable. He eventually united with Namjoon at the gate, where the latter was slightly red in the face due to his unusual consumption of alcohol. Yoongi had raised his suspicions as he turned to Hoseok, who was perched next to his partner. The male sniffed and explained, _‘he’s in a fucked mood’. _

Which was almost implausible, because Namjoon was the most chill person that Yoongi knew on Earth – but Hoseok didn’t elaborate, and Yoongi just wanted to go home, so that was that.

He opens his phone that’s lying flat by his bedside table. There’s a message from Namjoon.

** _Namjoon_ **

_You know what?_

_I hate him_

_It doesn’t matter whether he saves turtles or not_

_He’s a menace_

_Idk why he thinks he’s so almighty when he’s just a grade A++ asshole_

_Like_

_Ugh_

_Idek_

** _You_ **

_What if_

_He saves puppies too_

_Puppies Joonie_

_They’re fking cute and irresistible_

** _Namjoon_ **

_Wow ok can you like_

_Not for once_

_I mean it_

_He hasn’t even given my jacket back_

_How worse can he get_

** _You_ **

_What’s he ever done to you_

_God does he secretly know that you used to cosplay as Sailor Moon_

_Did he blackmail you_

** _Namjoon_ **

_That’s not important_

_Tf Sailor Moon is amazing_

_In conclusion, he’s an ass that I’d really love to kick_

** _You_ **

_I mean_

_Sounds more like a love confession to me than hatred_

_But ok_

** _Namjoon_ **

_You’re such a shriveled dick_

** _You_ **

_Wow fuck you Namjoon_

Namjoon doesn’t text back, and Yoongi rolls over on his mattress. Taemin had recommended taking the day off as if he knew what was going on, but it was these times where Yoongi needed a distraction. He couldn’t afford to squander his hours at home and let his imagination run over him like a truck.

Jumping into the shower, he twists the faucet as the cold water hits his bare skin. He waits for the hotness and struggles to keep his mind blank as a clean sheet of paper. He tries to wander back to the new escorts at the company, wondered what that Kang Daniel kid was doing right now, and who the heck was brave enough to be Taemin’s lover while being fully aware of the antics that’d tag along with the title? He almost succeeds in his mission until he shuffles out to the living room, where the TV is on, and the damned cereal ad with Taehyung shoveling a spoonful of milk-soaked cereal into his mouth plays. The stupid camera zooms into his glossy lips, and Taehyung’s tongue moves in slow motion as he licks the crumbs and milk.

He watches for an extensive five more seconds till he switches the channel.

The cereal ad’s poppy melody is stuck in his head as he exits his home with a sour look plastered on his face. All he wants to do is buy that fucking box of cereal now because apparently, you could receive Taehyung’s photo card at random if you bought one.

_I don’t even like cereal. _Yoongi slaps himself back to reality.

BigHit is hustling with people on the ground floor, occupied and packed as ever. There are a handful of unfamiliar escorts, ones that are wearing the badge for ‘newbies’, with a senior escort guiding them through the building, chattering about some basic procedures and how to maneuver through the wards. Yoongi scans the crowd and almost snorts at the positive and nervous demeanor of the newly elected escorts. They’d soon learn that the industry was nothing short of absolutely boring.

“They’re in for a crushing defeat, don’t you think?”

Yoongi glances sideways to see P.O. standing beside him with an amused smile adorning his round face. “More like a death sentence. An inescapable prison.” P.O. barks out laughing at the statement.

“It’s not _that _mortifying. Just a slight hassle, maybe. And also a suckish way to spend your twenties, but hey, it pays the bills.” P.O. pauses thoughtfully, “It pays a lot more than just the bills. They don’t even fire you as long as someone wants your services.”

“I guess,” Yoongi mumbles in agreement, “You here for the portfolios?”

P.O. presses the button for the T ward. “Nah, I got an appointment with my client in forty minutes. You?”

“Portfolios.”

“Nice,” They sit down in an empty table in the waiting area. “How’d your last one go?”

“Y’know,” He attempts to sound nonchalant. “Just the usual. Parties, a bunch of diamond spoons, some drama, but it’s over.”

P.O. hums as he turns his attention to the scenery outside. Yoongi assumes that the conversation is finished, but the man suddenly says, “I’m thinking about leaving the company soon.” The confession has Yoongi surprised. Many escorts considered quitting because they despised their job, but P.O. wasn’t one of them. Or at least, Yoongi had perceived him not to be. Perhaps he was wrong.

“… Really.”

“Really.” The other affirms, “And I have it all planned out. It sort of missed me that I actually did have a valid degree and was perfectly capable of acquiring another career. I have three interviews next week. This might be my last assignment here.” There’s something very conclusive but cheerful about how P.O. explains his situation, and Yoongi can’t help but question,

“But why?”

The cherry-haired escort chuckles, “’cause, well. I breached company policy. Like, a lot of ‘em. I met this girl as a client five months ago, and she wanted me to smash a cheesecake into her ex-boyfriend’s face as I acted as her secretly long-lost brother. She was great, and we kinda met when I wasn’t… in my work façade and all, afterward. And she was totally cool with what I did, assured that she didn’t mind, but I _did, _y’know? It just doesn’t feel right to be intimate with someone else anymore, and as much as I like this line of work, I can’t just ignore that.”

And Yoongi has no words to that. The choice hasn’t even occurred to him for the past… many years. But P.O. seems to be content with his own decision, his characteristic toothy smile on his face. “Well, I, er, hope that goes smoothly for you.”

“Thanks.” P.O. grins and then glimpses down at his watch. “I should be getting ready. I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Mhm.” He gazes upon P.O.’s back as the man gathers his belongings.

“Oh, right. Suga?” The escort calls him aloud, and that has his head rising again. “My name is Jihoon, by the way. Pyo Jihoon.”

An icky sensation pools in his stomach as the introduction rings in his ears. It’s as if P.O. has dislodged himself from heavy baggage and has now placed it upon his shoulders. It has him a little pale and breathless, as he forces his lungs to maintain his pace of breathing.

“See you around, Jihoon.”

Much to his disappointment, Taemin doesn’t announce his name for another wholesome ninety minutes, and Yoongi had waited for his turn scrolling down his phone, updating Namjoon on his boredom through unanswered and unread texts and skimming articles on the most recent celebrity scandals. The most intriguing one by far was that a member of SNSD had come out to be lesbian and was in a relationship with another girl group member of the same entertainment. Celebrities hardly revealed their sexuality, after all, even after LGBT relationships were now more widely accepted throughout the country.

“Suga-ssi, the Head Escort is asking for you.”

_God fucking finally. _He kicks off the chair and dusts his pants, slipping past a huddle of escorts that were giggling over some joke. Taemin’s office is the normal forty seconds away, and when he slams the door open ceremoniously, he’s not shocked to see that the roses were now supplanted with pink tulips. He found it rather hilarious that Taemin wasn’t being fired at this point.

“You could be _gentle _for once, Suga.” His boss chastises lightly, putting the novel in his hand back on the desk. It’s titled ‘_The Dreams of Lucifer’ _and has a classy hardcover – totally not the kind of genre he’d expect Taemin to read. “I might as well die of a heart attack if you always do that.”

He huffs as he drags out the rolling chair. “It’d be my pleasure.”

“I’m sure it would be,” Taemin rummages through his drawer and removes three files from it. “So, how was it? You’re basically touring all the parties – first the Parks, then the Kims. Anything worth a story?”

_I kissed one of their sons, _is what dashes into his mind, but he clamps his mouth shut. “The same old drill. Nothing new.”

Taemin shrugs the matter off and pushes the folders in his direction. He reaches for the yellow one first, which is a typical fake boyfriend case, the sort of material that they received on a daily basis. The only catch seemed to be that it was going to be a two-week thing, just long enough to convince the girl’s friends that she _did _have a boyfriend. The orange folder is from a middle-aged artist that is in dire need for a muse and also someone chill with kissing his paintings for ‘the blessing of an angel’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. It creeps him out a little, so he sets that one aside.

The last one, the green folder, is from Taehyung. There’s not much to it – in fact, it just says, ‘**_Can we talk?_**_’ _in the request box. It’s all very vague and cloudy – what _were _they even going to talk about? After the kiss, Yoongi had backtracked a little and resumed to moon-gazing, ignoring the elephant in the room. Taehyung hadn’t uttered a word either. So what was there to talk about, really?

_No, _Yoongi gulps, _why do I even have to meet him? _The past month floods back to him. He had chosen Taehyung’s forms like it was the most obvious thing in the world to do. He had the freedom to choose other requests as well, but he didn’t. He felt responsible because Taehyung _always _specifically wanted him to fulfill his wishes. He didn’t have to, though – he wasn’t chained to that obligation.

Taemin quirks a skeptical brow, “You’re taking longer than usual, aren’t you?” When Yoongi doesn’t respond, the man hums, “Well, we have all day. Don’t fret.”

_Think, Min Yoongi. _He scolds himself, _you crossed a line. You failed your standards. You lost control, and now you have to deal with the consequences. As much as you hate it, you can’t let go of what you have. This pays the bills. You aren’t P.O. – he actually has a strategy. You don’t. You can’t just leap out of this whenever you feel like it. _Hesitantly, he outstretches his hand to the yellow file. Taemin blinks at him.

“Taehyung’s file is green, Suga.”

“And the sky is blue, yes.” He quips immediately, agitated.

Taemin observes him acutely, as a scientist would scrutinize a specimen. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Right, and you’re not gay.”

“Taemin, for fuck’s sake –“

“I mean,” Taemin interjects, “If you don’t want to tell me, then fine, whatever. I just liked your progress and transformation over the course of four weeks, is all.”

“Don’t make me sound like a Pokémon you’re raising.”

“I never said that.” Taemin huffs, “Well, this assignment is longer than the ones that you normally perform. No qualms with that, right?”

“Mm.”

“Alright then, I’ll send her a confirmation message.” Taemin switches on the power of his laptop and types speedily on his keyboard. “By the way, just in case you forgot or completely eradicated this fact from your mind, all escorts, regardless of rank and experience, have the right to cancel an assignment midway once a year for whatever reason, emergency or not.”

He twitches at that. “I didn’t forget. Why are you even mentioning this?”

“Just reminding you of the privileges you should take advantage of.” His pinky poised high into the air, Taemin smirks and presses ‘enter’. “It never hurts to do so.”

***

Park Jimin is the self-proclaimed Solomon of their squad.

Seokjin is the mother-figure that was somehow a better chef that both of their family cooks combined, always coaxing his friends into feeding themselves properly amidst their busy weeks – Jimin saw how much it wounded the man to watch his brother starve himself before a showcase, thinning out his already bony stature so that the smallest silk cardigan fit loosely around his arms. Taehyung always ate his brother’s food afterward, flashing the most gigantic smile of gazillion watts to comfort him, and that was when Seokjin finally let out a sigh of bliss.

Hoseok is their mood maker, jamming the music up too many notches to be healthy and bombarding them with junk food when he thought Seokjin wasn’t here. He threw parties with the paycheck that Seokjin signed, and had the friendliness to convert the entire population of China into his BFFs. He was also the most talented person Jimin knew because he could dance like a professional (he was a part-time instructor, like Christ), was the best when it came to hair dye and makeup, and was the most sought after secretary of Korea.

Taehyung is the goofball, lightening everyone’s day with the weirdest, most phenomenal imaginative compliments, such as when he told Jimin that he ‘danced like poodles on rainbows, it’s the most beautiful and adorable thing ever’. But he’s also alarmingly insightful and so incredibly intelligent; everyone had been taken aback when Taehyung was the only person that was able to console Hoseok about being heartbroken by this awful jerk that called him ‘too chipper’, or whatever. Hoseok was adept at concealing his emotions, and nobody had a clue as to what was wrong, but Taehyung held Hoseok’s hands in his and sat down in front of him with the most serious frown and queried, ‘_You don’t need to smile if you aren’t happy, hyung’. _And Hoseok had shattered into a million pieces, while the rest of them picked every single shard up.

So right now, as the Solomon of the group, Jimin has to do something wise. It’s been a week and a half since the Kim’s social meet, and more than two weeks since Jimin has last smothered his best friend in person.

_Something _went down, obviously. Taehyung isn’t the one of their group to shut out all of them when he’s a mess – that’s a very Park Jimin move, as much as he abhors to admit that. He had a few guesses and theories, but he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Of course, there’s the option to just trudge into Taehyung’s complex because fuck manners, they were best friends for years. But he doesn’t, just because Jungkook texts him not to. And, well. Jimin had always been weak for the boy. He doesn’t really like to ruminate over why that is so.

All in all, it’s precisely why he’s in his gray Volvo, his arms crossed over his chest, as Jungkook sits upright in the passenger’s seat. They’ve been pin-drop silent for three minutes now, and Jimin’s growing nauseous.

“Well?” He clears his throat, glaring daggers at the bunny boy. “Why exactly do we need to converse so discreetly?”

Jungkook opens his mouth and scrunches his nose, and Jimin’s heart rate picks up as he waits for the moment. “… It’s complicated.”

“No _shit, _Jungkook.” He snaps, his fist colliding with the leather cover of the steering wheel. “Tae hasn’t been answering me for _days. _I’ve been neglecting him because of my auditions, yes, that’s my fault, but I need to know if he’s at least _eating, _okay?”

“I’m just as distressed as you are, Jimin-_ssi._” Jungkook hisses right back, and Jimin swallows the urge to correct him for the honorifics. There’s a storm of panic and misery in the usually stoic and steely orbs of the younger, and that pierces Jimin’s heart. “He’s distraught, refuses adamantly to meet anyone, and he doesn’t even ‘fess up on what the problem is. He eats a measly croissant every morning when I put the tray on his doorstep, but everything else is untouched. He’s breaking, I have no fucking idea why, and I can’t do _anything._” Jungkook’s voice cracks and Jimin feels like a terrible person for guilt-tripping him. Jungkook was so fond of Taehyung, although he never showed it.

Instead of apologizing, Jimin threads his fingers through Jungkook’s hair. He presumes that Jungkook would shoo him away, but he doesn’t. “Who was he with at the party?” Jungkook stiffens at the question, and Jimin also gets antsy for some reason.

“Suga, the escort from BigHit.”

An arrogant smirk and pale skin pass fleetingly by in sight, and Jimin scowls. He’s read endless articles about escorts after he heard that Taehyung was going on dates with this guy. There was nothing positive, just strings of news about how this mogul was affiliated with this escort that got him addicted to heroin, that he overdosed and died, and also how another escort ran away with the client’s money. He associates Suga with such terms and rumors, albeit the injustice of it. “Do you know what he did?”

The bodyguard shakes his head in denial. “Hyung didn’t talk to me at all on the ride home. He had this- _emptiness _in his eyes, and I haven’t seen that on him since,” Whatever remembrance he had mentally is drowned, because Jungkook doesn’t continue. “I don’t know what this Suga is doing to him. And call me ridiculous and blinded, but despite how hyung is behaving right now, I can’t believe that this escort is… _bad. _By how Taehyung described him, he seemed likable and human, and I’ve even spied on them from afar on several occasions, just in case. There wasn’t anything malicious, Jimin-ssi, I _swear_.”

He’s right, that does sound horribly ridiculous and blinded to Jimin, but to be fair, he hasn’t met the escort even once outside of his phone screen. Don’t judge a book by its cover was the proverb, wasn’t it?

So, what if, yeah? What if this Suga had a legitimate reason for screwing with Taehyung? Jimin can’t come up with any, but he isn’t the smartest person on the planet either. And he trusted Taehyung’s judgment, too. It was Taehyung that had introduced Hoseok to Seokjin in middle school.

He drops his hand from Jungkook’s scalp and fumbles for his phone, flicking through his tabs. There’s the one with BigHit’s homepage, and Jungkook’s staring at him in bewilderment. He presses a number and brings the phone to his left ear. There are two rings until it halts.

“_Good afternoon, this is Taemin of BigHit Escort Service’s T ward. How may I help you today?”_

Jungkook’s pupils blow wide in disbelief at the words, but Jimin goes on.

“Oh, not much. But could you pass this message on to one of your escorts, Suga?”

He’s fucking Solomon, and he’ll find a way to save babies being sliced in half if that means his friend will be happy again.

***

Yoongi was never curious about how much food the human digestive system could possibly process.

He is now, as he sits across his female client that is wolfing down her seventh plate of macaroni.

Her name is Ahn Hyejin, who sleekly informed him to address her as ‘Hwasa’. She’s probably one of the most intimidating women he’s faced, with her thick eyeliner and velvet brown lipstick, her thighs rippling with muscles. Yoongi could easily picture himself being plowed to the ground if he dared to utter one offensive joke that got on her nerves. He’s quick to notice that the girl is actually quite amicable, as she pushed him a cup of coffee on their first appointment as a gesture of politeness and greeting. It was too sweet for his tastes, but he appreciated it.

Her two-week boyfriend gimmick was wacky when he heeded the whole backstory. Apparently, the girl had just moved to Seoul from her hometown, and at her new workplace, she fell heads over heels for this other girl named Yongsun. The thing is, Hwasa hadn’t been certain on Yongsun’s sexuality, and she somehow blurted out that she had a boyfriend to one of her coworkers and now everyone knew, even Yongsun.

“I’ve never seen a person so morose.” Hwasa sulked to him, as Yoongi bit back a fit of laughter. The lie had carried on too far, and she had claimed that her boyfriend lived in Seoul, and now all her friends at the office were begging her to see him, well, except Yongsun. “You just need to act like you are my boyfriend, but we drifted apart ‘cause we realized how polar opposites we were and that we wouldn’t last. I’m sorry; it’s a massive joke, isn’t it? I know how hilarious this sounds, but it really isn’t to me.”

Yoongi chuckled, “No, no. I’m grateful that you’ve told me all that. You’re paying me for this, anyway, which is nothing to be sorry about.” Hwasa offered a crooked grin at that too.

For the past week, Yoongi had dropped Hwasa off at the department building of her office and intentionally glanced upward every now and then to wave at her friends as well. He was ‘Choi Hyunmin’, a chemist of some laboratory downtown. He pecked the girl on her cheek twice in front of the pack of women, and a particular female with wavy hair and feline features hardened upon the sight. Yongsun wasn’t very adroit at being smooth, he noted.

Now, halfway into the second week, they’re in a restaurant for dinner that Hwasa is paying for out of gratitude. Yoongi had been placated with his platter of lasagna and glass of coke, but Hwasa has two forks in her fists and a stack of plates to her right. It’s amusing to watch, at least – Hwasa seemed really delighted to dig in. It made him remember Taehyung around flowers and trees, how his rectangular smile went on full display, his straightly aligned teeth shining. Does Taehyung like macaroni? Yoongi hasn’t ever asked Taehyung questions throughout their dates together. Gloom prods at his conscience as he thinks of the man again. Taemin has messaged him that Taehyung had submitted more requests, but Yoongi dismissed all of them.

“Suga?”

He spasms in shock, as Hwasa wipes the dripping cheese sauce from her chin, a bemused expression painting her makeup. “Are you alright? You were zoning out.”

“O-oh, yeah. A little worn out, I guess.”

Hwasa nods with a noncommittal noise and then stabs her fork into five pieces of macaroni. “I don’t want to pry, but,” She ‘nom’s into the bite. “You can give me a vague idea? I’m really thankful for your efforts, and your tips actually had Yongsun interacting with me again. I’d love to be able to do something in return, y’know? No biggie.”

And of course, that’s nonsense and isn’t in accord with Yoongi’s personal principles for his clients. He _never _got personal with his clients and that was final, period. But he’s been breaking all his rules nowadays for his convenience, and this might become a pattern because he finds himself spilling to Hwasa.

“I have feelings for another client,” He murmurs in a much lower tone, but Hwasa nods to indicate that she could hear him fine. “I don’t know when it all started. I know he has feelings for me, too, he can’t make it any more evident.” Pausing, he collects his thoughts. “And I’m so lost. I haven’t considered being in a relationship since college, and… my job has limitations. It’d be worth a trial round if he were ordinary, but he’s not – we’re not going to mix well.”

“Hm, okay,” She chugs down her glass of sprite, “And how long have you… been acquainted with this dude?”

“Since April.” It’s mid-May now, so it’s inching to two months. “We kissed two weeks ago and I’ve been avoiding him ever since.”

“Dick move,” Hwasa grunts, which stings, but is the truth. “Do you want to date him?”

He wants to answer ‘no’, but that’d be a flat out lie. Ever since the morning he woke up from the kiss, he’s thought and lingered too much on his dreams, where Taehyung was brewing coffee for him in the morning, his smoothie on the breakfast table as he kissed Yoongi awake, despite the latter’s whines and complaints. He’s never been so immersed in another person as now, and he so desperately wanted more. Maybe it was love, he had no clue – he’d never been in love before to place a label on the emotion. He flutters his eyelids shut and whispers, “Yeah, I do.”

He confidently believed that avoiding the boy would resolve the issue. It only took thirteen hours for reality to crash into his sanity, as Yoongi’s chest ached when he was at home, that goddamned cereal ad on repeat on his phone. For a month and a half, his feelings for Taehyung had blossomed unknowingly, and this was the result of the bloom. He wanted to kiss Taehyung again – he wanted the model to caress his cheek and whisper comforting phrases into his ear. They were unprecedented desires, and Yoongi had struggled to come to terms with them until now.

“Then ask him out?” Hwasa advises, in which Yoongi snorts. If it were that simple, really. “I- okay, I understand that that came out stupidly. But honestly? You’re hot stuff and I’d be after you if I were straight. I see how your… occupation is totally not trifling, yeah, but I heard that tons of escorts still engage in committed relationships.”

The escort shrugs. “Yes. But I can’t do that with him.”

“Why not?”

“Because love should be perfect as love,” Yoongi replies softly, and Hwasa blinks at him. “He deserves a stable relationship. I’d feel mortified if he were stuck with me.”

She slowly puts down her fork, her brows creased in dissatisfaction. “Why are you choosing what he deserves and what he doesn’t?”

“Because he wouldn’t agree.” He’s not being very articulate, but he proceeds. “We’ll never agree, and it’ll be a deadlock. I’ve seen enough relationships in our industry, how they unfold, how they never run as they’re ought to. It’s never one party’s fault, but a normal person and an escort can’t date. There are things that love can’t surmount, and I don’t need him to experience that. Love should be perfect as love for him.” Hwasa’s crinkled nose straightens out, and something in her droops visibly.

“_Oh_, Suga.” She heaves a sigh, sliding her plate to create a second stack. “There are so many things I want to comment on, but,” Her fingers wrap around his knuckles, and he flinches at the sudden contact and warmth. “Love isn’t perfect. Love can’t be perfect for anyone. The concept is, sure. But once people are inserted into the equation, nothing is perfect. But it’s also the people in it that make it _seem _perfect – imperfectly perfect, do you follow?” He doesn’t, but Hwasa is really intense right now, even with remnants of cheese sauce slobbered over her mouth. “You need to know that you deserve to be a part of that as much as he does. You’re just as much of an imperfection as he is, and you’re not ruining anything for him.”

He wants to trust her. He really, really, really wants to soak in her claim and hope that it’s nothing but the truth.

But it isn’t.

Somewhere deep inside, he knows that it isn’t.

“Thanks.” His lips tug upward, his facial muscles straining and blood pounding against his ribcage. _It’s pleasant to hear, at least. _Hwasa flashes a ‘no problem’ beam and casually orders a new plate of spaghetti. The waitress gapes at her and then the wobbly pile of ceramic plates that are cleansed without a speck of sauce. A carbonara pasta arrives in another six minutes and Hwasa squeals like a child that’s just been told that it’ll be Christmas every single day of the year. Yoongi finds her very amusing to admire and fixes his gaze on the disappearing noodles.

(_You’re just as much of an imperfection as he is.)_

That’s not the point, though.

Min Yoongi isn’t an imperfection – he is a disastrous shithole. ‘Imperfection’ doesn’t even cut close. And Yoongi definitely doesn’t need to drag Taehyung down along with him, to that dark, murky place. Taehyung is sunshine and everything that is light and brilliant in the world, and he’s better off like that. Yoongi has dwelled in his wet, obscure cave for too long, hiding and hiding further.

Kim Taehyung just shines too brightly for him.

Hwasa’s task was over in another five days. She declared that two weeks was a credible amount of time to apparently comprehend that a relationship wasn’t worthwhile – the story was that Hwasa and Yoongi’s schedules never coincided and that their preferences were far too mismatched to even attempt for alignment. They quickly concluded that it’d be more beneficial to break up right there, when the feelings weren’t too attached and all. It was a realistic story, and the escort applauded his client for that.

She exhales and then chortles at him. “It’s been awesome, befriending an escort. You’re so much fun, Suga, it’s like I’ve been friends with you forever.” And he does, unexpectedly so, agree. It had to be Hwasa’s laidback personality, inviting and earnest. His clients typically didn’t approve of him, even though they were the pricks that hired him and submitted a request for an escort. Hwasa was none of that crap and was very accepting of him from the beginning. “We probably won’t bump into each other ever again, but would you wave at me if we cross paths on the streets or something?”

Suga snickers at her out of good humor, but melts into a narrow smile eventually. “Of course, Hwasa. Make sure to deck me into the nearest wall if I ignore you.” It’s her turn to laugh hysterically.

“Duly noted.”

He teases her about her shy puppy love for Yongsun before they part, and Hwasa slaps him on the shoulder, blushing profusely. It’s a refreshing feeling, as if they really _had _been best buddies for years. He inwardly recognizes that that’s because he’s been more personal with her than any of his other clients with the exception of Taehyung, but shoves that realization out of his consciousness.

He stops at the bus station, where she spots her bus rolling in from a distance. Her short, frizzy hair swirls in a circular motion as she twists on her heels and looks at him directly. Perhaps, if Yoongi had been straight, he would’ve had a crush on her. But he’s gay, and that’s that.

“Suga?” She smacks her lips, and he tilts his head to the side inquisitively. “Don’t be too harsh with yourself. You’re wonderful – I’m sure whoever your lucky guy is, he’s in wholehearted agreement with me.”

For a moment, he can’t seem to apprehend what she’s saying at all. The speech is breathtaking and foreign simultaneously, like he’s heard English for the first time and has absolutely no fucking idea what it’s about. Helpless, he mumbles, “Yeah,” and Hwasa flings herself onto the vehicle as the enormous wheels rotate in Yoongi’s face. The girl waves at him wildly until she’s a dot miles away, and Yoongi’s feet are planted to the ground.

Dumbfounded and half-conscious, he hauls a cab to the sidewalk and ducks in, telling the driver BigHit’s address somewhere in between. Hwasa’s reassurance screeches and flies about rambunctiously in his brain, and a lump catches in his throat, as ‘_you’re wonderful’ _echoes inside like a siren on an ambulance. He doesn’t even squint or wince when one of the streetlights across him glow right into his field of vision, too stunned for words.

The driver grabs his shoulder a little after, howling at him to pay the fee already, that he wanted to go home too and didn’t have time to spare for bullshit. Yoongi hastily tosses a few bills at the man and grumbles at him to keep the change, stumbling out of the car and whacking his ID into the machine. He collides into some shoulders and legs, and several of the escorts swerve at him to cuss, until they hold their tongue upon identifying him. He faintly recalls pressing the button for the T ward’s floor and rushing to get off the elevator, and before he registers his surroundings, he’s propped on the spinning chair of Taemin’s office, the man scanning some document on his monitor screen peacefully.

The escort glimpses around in confusion, and then snaps towards Taemin, who has noticed that he was finally back. His mouth is dry and his spine vibrates in a dull sort of pain. “What am I doing here again?”

Taemin doesn’t detach his attention from his screen. “You barged in out of nowhere and just sat down. It’s been around twenty minutes, and you were really out of it – I thought you’ve gotten into some steamy activities and just needed cool-down time, but it doesn’t seem like that either.”

A groan tears from him. “I don’t even fucking want to explore why I did that.”

The Head Escort doesn’t respond, but throws a crumpled piece of paper at him, in which Yoongi receives midair. “What’s this?”

“A message for you that I was ordered to relay on Wednesday.” That would be five days ago, then. “It’s from Park Jimin. His rant was kind of too much for me to memorize, so I scribbled down the basic outline for you.” Taemin grunts indignantly. “You’re giving me so much more work to do, Suga.”

_Park Jimin? _He un-crumples the note and skims the barely legible sentences.

He freezes, his blood cold.

‘_Taehyung hasn’t been eating properly since the party. I don’t care what you do, bring him back to us. Don’t fucking test me.’_

“Taemin?”

“Hm?”

“Where’s that green file?”

***

_Sunlight. _

_God, it’s a hindrance. _

He curls into a ball, his blankets scuffling around his body. His curtains are full five meters from his bed, and he can’t bother to stand up and chuck them together. His breath smells acrimonious and rotten, and he tries to think when he had previously brushed his teeth. Fuck, his head is killing him – did someone smash a hammer on his skull yesterday? There’s no way it could hurt this bad without something being awfully wrong. Did he get a concussion when all he did was sleep in bed?

_What day is it, anyway? _His phone on the bedside desk proclaims boldly that it’s Tuesday, and it’s two in the afternoon. He might’ve brushed his teeth around seven yesterday. In the morning. He kind of wants to vomit at the thought and crawls to the bathroom, and gawks at his reflection in the mirror. There’s a thick layer of stubble on his chin, and his face is covered in grease and bread crumbs from that croissant he’s been devouring for the past… what? He wasn’t counting, goddamnit. With an incoherent, muffled profanity, Taehyung shuffles out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth.

He sees that there’s a white envelope poking out from the bottom of his door, and retrieves it with a small groan produced from his mouth. It’s from Jungkook, with the scrawled handwriting and clumsily sealed cover.

_‘Make sure to eat something other than croissants, hyung. I asked our cook to prepare japchae for you. Don’t worry about your schedule, I have it cleared. I hope you feel better soon. –JK’_

Taehyung sniffs as a cloud of shame looms over him. He hadn’t exactly been sane for a while, ever since his kiss with Suga. He had mustered all his strength and courage when he initiated that kiss – it was phenomenal while it lasted, Suga’s lips spicy from the chicken dish he had eaten earlier, but impossibly soft and quite chapped, just enough for it to be enticing and arousing. They went on, and it was dreamy and beautiful until Suga had just disregarded him and his presence after the ordeal.

It hurt him so much more than it should have.

Suga was an escort, he had boundaries; he had that engraved in him. He was an idiot to assume that Suga would discard all that for Taehyung, even just for a split second. How cocky and pompous could he get? He was just a client to Suga, some rich kid that spent exponential numbers on him and had no sense of reality. Suga was uncomfortable and irked whenever Taehyung attempted to appease him – it was obvious that the other wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe he longed for the kiss that they shared to invalidate that, but it just had the opposite effect.

To Suga, he was dollar signs. And while a part of him had accepted that, another part of him rejected it entirely. A part of him also chanted like a mantra, that Suga was a mere crush. Another part of him had veiled his emotions, how he was falling deep into an abyss he couldn’t climb out of.

Suga was more than just an escort to him. He was a man that adored kittens, couldn’t survive without his daily caffeine intake, a little brash with his vocabulary and withheld, like splashes of waves on the shorelines that whooshed in to tickle your ankles and then slithered back into the sea. Taehyung loved how his pink gums peeked out when he found a joke or Taehyung’s idiocy especially comical, how his deep, gravelly voice transformed into high-pitched giggles in a matter of seconds. Suga was so much more, was always so much more, and Taehyung had been in love ever since he’s been entranced by the fiery ‘get lost’ greeting on BigHit’s homepage.

So yeah, it hurt when the man he had fallen so devastatingly for kissed him and then glided away, like he had accomplished a goal on his bucket list. It wasn’t unforeseeable, but that didn’t mean he was numb to the pain.

He maintained his composure in front of Suga, in front of Jungkook, and then finally broke down crying pitifully on his king-sized bed in the middle of the night, sobbing into his pillows and dreading himself for how hopelessly in love he was with a person he didn’t even know the _name _of.

Right now, though, he’s a little calmer, after repeating a cycle of cry, eat, replenish fluids, cry, eat, sleep, etc. He had continuously submitted request forms to BigHit, which none were acknowledged. He’ll keep trying, though, because he’s persistent like that. His one virtue was his perseverance, or at least his brother once praised him so.

Habitually, he picks up his phone and unlocks it.

He gasps silently upon the notification.

** _From: BigHit Escort Services_ **

** _To: Me_ **

** **

** _Kim Taehyung-ssi, your request has been acknowledged. Please come to your scheduled appointment with our escort, Suga, this upcoming Thursday. We look forward to your attendance. _ **

** **

** _Taemin_ **

** _Head Escort of T ward_ **


	7. Don't Hurt for Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth is, really – the truth is.
> 
> The truth is that Min Yoongi is hurting for Kim Taehyung.
> 
> Min Yoongi is hurting because he’s in love with Kim Taehyung.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much guys for your support! I was on a roll this weekend and managed to finish typing up chapter 9, so I was like, hey, why not post chapter 7 a week early? And I love the feedback I'm getting about the characters - I love how observant all of you guys are <333 
> 
> This story is not even halfway through (oops) by the way, and it's now at 70k in chapter 9, soooo. Still a long way to go, in case any of you were curious XD
> 
> Note: 'italics' are flashbacks!
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy this chapter too OwO

_He was twenty-one when he almost murdered Min Yoongi with a refrigerator._

_He had just finished an interview with the three Head Escorts of BigHit, all of whom were unbelievably handsome and out of his league – the questions hadn’t been the ordinary routine he’d expect for most companies. The Head Escort of the S ward literally asked him whether he’d prefer having a banana or a zucchini up his asshole with the most serious face, and the other two escorts weren’t fazed in the slightest. He had answered zucchini with no specific reason, and the man in the purple scarf had scribbled down notes on his response, whatever that meant._

_A lady in a pencil skirt and silk blue tie instructed him to wait in a room, so Namjoon entered his assigned room of 206 without another word. He was the only person in it – the room had no windows, only a refrigerator on the right and a shelf packed with stacks of papers and folders by the side. He intended to stroll over to the fridge and grab a drink to calm his nerves._

_The reality was that his foot crashed into the corner of the fridge, causing the gigantic thing to tilt and rapidly slide over with a ‘whoosh’ as Namjoon clutched his shoe, trying not to topple over. He heard a drowned yelp beneath the refrigerator, and his thoughts clouded in panic at the thought that there could be a **person ** under that humongous piece of crap._

_**F****uck, did I kill someone before I even had the chance to start working?** Cursing in a hushed voice, he scrambled to push off the refrigerator and could catch a glimpse of the squashed victim’s hand quivering underneath. “Shit, shit, shit, I’m so sorry, are you okay? I didn’t realize that there was a person- I mean, even if I had, there was nothing I could do to stop that from happening, god, I swear it’s usually not this bad, fuck –“_

_A strained groan resounded, as the refrigerator crashed into the floor with a harsh ‘bang’. Namjoon gulped when a man with vibrant blond hair emerged from the ground, dusting off his shoulder roughly. “Motherfucking Jesus, that hurts,” The guy grunted, “How do you knock over a goddamned **fridge**, what the fuck?” He snapped towards Namjoon and snarled, his teeth gritted and clothes crinkled from the damage._

_“Sorry,” Namjoon winced as he struggled to put the gigantic box back in place, “I swear that wasn’t my intention. Are you injured anywhere? I could drive you to the hospital.”_

_With a huff, the male stood up and stretched his ankles, then his wrists. “Nah, I’m alright. Hospital fee is fucking expensive without insurance, which I don’t have, so.” He eyes Namjoon head to toe, “You here for a job too?”_

_It was a relief that the dude didn’t seem too angered over the situation. He looked like he could swiftly deck a tiger into the concrete pavement if he really wanted to, and Namjoon wasn’t ready to die just yet. “Yeah, to get rid of those debts and loans and,” He waved his hand in an explanatory motion, “You get what I mean.”_

_“Mhm,” The guy crouches back down into his curled position of the leather stool next to the fridge. “Sounds like fun.” Conversation ceased after that, the guy was obviously disinterested and somewhat agitated from the destruction caused earlier. Namjoon squirmed in his seat and piped in,_

_“My name’s Namjoon. Yours?”_

_The man’s orbs flickered behind his flashy bangs. With a moment of pursed lips, he leaned back towards the wall and mumbled, “Yoongi.”_

_Yoongi was twenty-two then, a university dropout after serving in the military for a while. He said something about studying composition in between, although he never dug quite deep into it. Namjoon had left it at that, not wanting to pry. He told Yoongi how he was a medical student at SNU, and the latter had quirked his brows at that._

_“You’re a student at SNU and you’re here?” Namjoon grimaced at the notion._

_“My father’s business went bankrupt last year,” He disclosed unwillingly, and Yoongi clamped his mouth shut in understanding. “I’m honestly not sure if I can graduate.”_

_“Well,” The blond scoffed, “We can be Team Dropout if we both get in.”_

_Much to their luck (or maybe not, he didn’t know), they got the job and were separated into different wards – Namjoon was in T, Yoongi in S. Namjoon’s curiosity piqued at the results, at how Yoongi responded to the queer question of whether he’d have a banana or a zucchini up his asshole._

_Yoongi was a naturally secretive person. He disclosed the minimum but had the power to coax someone into revealing everything. Even Namjoon often discovered himself confessing his problems to Yoongi in dire times, such as when his parents practically disowned him after hearing about his newest employment. The man scarcely offered any advice – he simply listened, nodded, and cussed in between whenever he felt like it was suitable. But that’s what induced people to say more – the silence. Through the first year of coming to know Yoongi, their interaction had been very one-sided – Namjoon confiding in Yoongi, and Yoongi perched on the mossy cushions of his apartment, chewing on a squid leg and downing a soju with a sage expression on his face._

_A year and a half after that, Namjoon received a call from Yoongi at four in the morning._

_“Hyung, what even –“ He was groggy from sleep and his voice was laced with agitation – he had to deal with a nosy client just a few hours ago and had collapsed to his bed. But the breathing over the speaker was uneven and raspy, the connection garbling in between and fuzzy groans buzzing on and off. Namjoon rubbed his eyes with his free hand and paid attention to the noise over the phone. “Hyung?”_

_A stuttered inhale echoed, and Namjoon detached his device from his ear, just to check the caller ID once again. It clearly read ‘Min Yoongi’. He brought the phone closer to his cheek._

“… Na- Namjoon?”

_He instantly flicked his eyes back to the screen – it was still Yoongi. But that wasn’t right; Yoongi never stumbled over his words. Yoongi had never sounded so terrified, ever. Yoongi was calm and composed, had his game together, and was always a step ahead of everyone else in terms of skill, comebacks, and everything else. Namjoon blinked hard and spoke, “Hyung? Is that you?”_

_There was another round of pants, pained and stressed. “I’m going to be over at your place in ten. Just leave the door unlocked and I’ll help myself.” _

_He was perplexed, but he still slumped over towards his door and unlocked the knob nonetheless. Overcome by sleep, he drifted back off on his mattress, only briefly stirring to the rustle at his doorstep and muted footsteps around his house, until a shadowy figure dropped to the couch in his bedroom. He could heed Yoongi pull a blanket out from his wardrobe, shifting on his temporary bed._

_What really woke him up, however, was when he heard the choked whimpers._

_It began quietly and continued quietly. As if Yoongi was afraid to be noticed, to be uncovered. Namjoon twisted his head at a slight angle and could see Yoongi’s shoulders rising and falling tensely, a gagging cough resounding every now and then. He was wide-awake as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice over his body._

_It was then that he realized – he knew nothing about Min Yoongi._

“Why the heck are you so moody nowadays?”

“I’m not,” Namjoon protests at Yoongi’s commentary, as he snatches an orange-patterned plate of salmon sushi from the conveyor belt of food. The latter shrugs and grabs his blue plate of charcoaled yellowtail and mayonnaise. “It’s just Kim Seokjin, you know what I mean?”

“It’s been _ages, _Joon, are you fucking serious?” Popping the yellowtail sushi into his mouth, Yoongi points his chopsticks at the man, “What’d the poor guy do to you, anyway? You’re like the Buddha of my life.”

“Yeah? And who’s your Satan?”

“Lee Taemin, that motherfucker.” Yoongi rolls his eyes and carefully stacks his plates into a tall mountain of colorful sushi platters. “And don’t stray, idiot. What happened?”

The truth is on the tip of his tongue. His chest still burns with hatred at Seokjin’s detestable words, his thoughtless and obviously emotional breakdown. He didn’t want to believe what was coming from the man’s lips, the same lips that Namjoon thought to be one of the treasured beauties of the world. He’s considered rambling to Yoongi about the situation, but he knows that the latter would snort and say something along the lines of, ‘_you can’t be serious, I hear that on a fucking hourly basis’ _and would dismiss the issue – Yoongi was self-deprecating that way, and Namjoon was trying to change that mindset. It’s not working very well.

But it’s not only the Min’s probable reaction that he keeps the matter to himself. It’s also the flicker of remorse in Seokjin’s doe brown irises, his pupils dilating and knuckles clenching, throat constricting visibly as if he had no idea who he was right then. Namjoon could sense the apology forming and ready to spill from the other, but Namjoon wasn’t sane enough for something compassionate like that. He didn’t have the heart to hear Seokjin’s explanation. They simply weren’t at that level yet.

Yet?

Namjoon presses his thumb against his temple, grumbling, “Nothing important.” Yoongi obviously doesn’t believe him but resumes to munching on his new cucumber sushi. There are moments when the two of them maintained their distance when they deemed necessary.

The ‘yet’ on his mind lingers, however. It’s funny how he subconsciously categorized Kim Seokjin as someone he’d see often enough to even reach that level. They talked three times – all of which weren’t wholesomely pleasant, each one progressively worse than before. Kim Seokjin was wearing a plastic façade during that birthday party, acting sweet with his sugarcoated greetings and tailored suit. Then he was completely undone at that diner, a petite glass of soju between his fingers, his hair tangled and lips glossed with oil from the pork skin – but even then, Seokjin never seemed open with himself.

Finally, the last time they met – when they hit rock bottom, Namjoon thought he saw a glimpse of a person that Seokjin hated – vengeful, spiteful, and pitiful. Because despite the profanities that were gushing from his mouth, Seokjin was screaming for help with all his fibers. The message was clear as day, transparent as a refined crystal.

_‘Please help me.’_

The thing is, Namjoon has always been weak.

Weak for people, weak for feelings, he was weak like that. He’s logical and profound in knowledge, and is fully aware when one should just step the fuck out of a muddle they can’t fix.

Kim Seokjin isn’t a muddle he can fix. They’ll never come eye-to-eye, because Namjoon is accustomed to strolling through the bustling city, while Seokjin’s life consists of looking over the blinding lights of the metropolis, above everyone else. There’s a stark contrast between someone that doesn’t realize what he’s living in and someone that has only seen the whole picture of that life while never actually being in it. That’s the gap between Namjoon and Seokjin.

But even so, Seokjin needed help.

Maybe not his. There were always more people to help. But if there were, Namjoon was somehow the only one that realized.

Kim Namjoon is always weak – he’s been weak when he unintentionally eavesdropped on Yoongi’s conversation with the Head Escort of the S ward, talking in a monotonous voice that he couldn’t bear to work here anymore. He’s been weak when that girl with that terminal illness smiled at him like the setting sun.

He’s weak, so he guesses that he’s not going to step out of Kim Seokjin’s mess anytime soon.

***

“You’re… dressed up.”

Yoongi twitches at the rather blunt statement. He warily glances upward, and there’s Mino, with his new silver lip piercing and loosely fastened tie. His dirty blond hair is tucked under his snapback, revealing his smooth, tan forehead. It’s a weird mismatch of hip-hop vibes and their uniform, but Mino is that kind of guy. “So I am,” He returns blandly, as Mino slumps down on the green chair next to him. The other is examining him like a child trying to figure out the anatomy of a unicorn, and it is nothing but disconcerting. “What?”

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out.” Mino chuckles, leaning back towards the wall as a newbie escort sprinted past them down the corridor. “It’s just, I’ve never seen you out of your work clothes, even when we were in the same ward. And your hair was always jet black, then. It’s _purple _now, like holy shit, has a revolution occurred while I was sleeping overnight, y’ know?”

Yoongi curls his fingers into his freshly dyed purple locks. He did change his hair color like a fashion trend of sorts nowadays, but he hadn’t put much thought into it. And, well, he did stick out like a sore thumb, with his ironed jeans and white sweater, amongst the huddle of escorts in their sharp suits. “I suppose,” He grunts.

Silence befalls over their shoulders, and Yoongi fumbles through his memories to remember what Mino was like. They had interacted much more when they were both at the S ward – most of their conversations were inappropriate, debating over the creepiest kinks a client had. He wasn’t ever deep with him, though, not like he and Namjoon or Mino and P.O. “Oh,” A topic strikes, “Is P.O. really leaving?”

Mino bristles, but nonchalantly offers, “Yeah, I guess that’s what it is.” There’s nothing that follows, and Yoongi feels a little guilty about bringing the matter to the surface. He’s in the middle of spurring another conversation when Mino continues, “He really loves her. He’s introduced her to me, too. Great girl. They’re really compatible with each other.” Yoongi isn’t sure what the fitting reaction for that is, so he nods glumly. “I wish to be even as half as courageous as he is.”

Yoongi frowns, “Weren’t you the dude that promptly drove our company into chaos by publicly announcing how awful the sex game of Hansung’s CEO was?”

Mino laughs, “That’s not courageous, Suga. I call it stupidity and attention-seeking. But anyhow, bravery is a crucial quality to have. I didn’t have that when I most needed it.” There’s a tinge of somberness in his voice and the rumors of Mino’s brief scandal with that unnamed celebrity flashes by. Mino was suspended from any tasks for a couple of weeks, but Yoongi had never ruminated over it too much. “I still ponder, y’ know? ‘What if’? What if I was actually brave enough to catch him? Would we be in that house we dreamt of, with five puppies and a rainbow roof?” _Exhale_, “But then I’m quick to admit that I’d never been able to make him happy. We loved each other, but not enough to hold on.”

He’s wearing a resigned smile, and even Yoongi can tell that it wouldn’t have worked out. It’s for the better, most likely, that they broke up. He can’t speak for another person’s relationship, but even then, escorts were just in dire circumstances in this particular field.

But then, Mino stares right into him and asks,

“Are you brave enough, Suga?”

He goes static at the perceptive inquiry, Mino’s lip piercing gleaming under the lamplight.

Is he?

(_“No, Yoongi. It’s because you’re brave. You’ve always been the bravest child – _my_ bravest child.”)_

There must’ve been something about his face, because Mino drops the solemnness with a howling fit of giggles, “I’m joking, man. Don’t take me so seriously like that.” The secretary of the S ward’s Head Escort approaches them, and Mino pats him once on the head affectionately, although Yoongi doesn’t recall them being so friendly. The man tags behind the woman giddily, blabbering off to her about his most recent job, in which she seems very not-intrigued.

Yoongi rises as well, dragging his heavy feet to his meeting room. Mino’s question floats in his cloud of inner dialogues – _what does he mean by brave enough? Brave enough for what? To hold on or to let go? _

He has to empty his brain of such pointless problems before he enters the room. He had a job to do – a tricky one, a one he avoided for the past two weeks for a legitimate reason. A reason that could threaten and throttle his career in a zap. He’s Suga from hereon; he’s Suga that’s in prime condition, excellent and flawless.

He can do this.

He turns the doorknob and steps inside – light floods his vision as the sun penetrates the glass wall ahead of him. The room is arranged as it always is, with the table in the dead center with unnecessarily many chairs around it. And in one those chairs sits Kim Taehyung, hands clasped tightly atop his lap and eyes hooded from his bangs, exuding anxiety and unease in all directions possible. His raven hair pokes out from his fuzzy army green beanie, which accentuates the ivory shade of his skin, which is normally tan, honey-kissed brown. It’s as if he hasn’t seen the sun in ages, and his cheeks are sunken, with a crack in his bottom lip that displayed an attempt to be covered with balm.

_He hasn’t been eating, _it rings within him, and a searing burn scorches through his veins. Taehyung’s usually sturdy arms appear frail and thin beneath the fabric of his oversized shirt, and there’s a sort of desperation in his body language as he senses Yoongi’s entrance – the way he tenses, shudders, and freezes.

Yoongi can feel his determination tearing apart.

Hesitantly, he pulls out a chair on the opposite side of Taehyung and quietly plops down. His client peers at him hopefully, a grin that isn’t quite boxy or vibrant forming. Yoongi has to bite his tongue to control his emotions from just watching the younger male.

“Hey.” Taehyung croaks and his voice sounds as if he hasn’t spoken in days. And maybe, he really hasn’t. Taehyung was a people-person, though – he hated being alone, he always wanted to fit in, to be included. To imagine Taehyung sheltered in a room, dark and cold, starving himself day after day – it leaves Yoongi shivering with the faint desire to cry – something he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

He ought to reply with a ‘hi’, or ‘how were you’. That’s what he intended, but his mouth moves faster than his conscience.

“You look really shitty right now.”

_Wow. _

He can almost see Namjoon hovering above him, slapping him across the face and shaking his head in denial, muttering ‘you jerk’.

But Taehyung just pouts a little at that, “I was busy, hyung. I’m a model, you know? Schedule was packed, and it’s summer season right now. It means I have to run my ass off every single hour.”

And of course, Yoongi has no idea how a model’s daily routine is like, but he does have a hunch that Taehyung is spurting bullshit right now. By how aggressive Park Jimin was on that note, it couldn’t be that Taehyung was just starving himself for the sake of his career. He could call him out for that, but Yoongi doesn’t, because Taehyung is scratching his own knuckles nervously – a habit of his whenever he was lying. The skin is red and raw, and that makes Yoongi’s mood worse.

“If you say so.” Yoongi mumbles and the scratching slows gradually. “I’m hungry. Can we talk as we eat something?”

Taehyung seems conflicted, as his hand flies over his stomach. “I don’t know if I should –“

“Let’s go eat japchae.” He urges, because Taehyung once said his favorite dish was japchae. The model’s jaw snaps at the mention of the food, and Yoongi tilts his head to the right. “Come on, Taehyung.”

There’s a rampaging debate going on in that wavering stare, Yoongi notices. He catches how Taehyung’s fingers caress his flat stomach under his shirt, and the boy’s insecure confession of how he felt inferior to other models sometimes protrudes through his mind like a thorn. He never comprehended why. Taehyung is genuinely beautiful, from the thick measure of his brows to the richness of his smile, from his warm embrace to lean legs. He’s so beautiful, that Yoongi wants nothing more than to bask in his presence every now and then, when he’s dreaming and too happy with him.

“For me, Taehyung?” He whispers, so eager, too eager to have the model eat. He half-believed that Jimin was lying to him – but it’s plain that he wasn’t, now that he’s seen Taehyung in person.

The other caves at his plea. “Okay.”

So Yoongi grasps Taehyung by the sleeve, out to the nearest japchae and noodles restaurant in the neighborhood, with Taehyung protesting as he tried to put on his mask and sunglasses for disguise. Yoongi couldn’t care less right then, because his heartbeat raced when his fingers wrapped around that unnaturally narrow wrist, at how he couldn’t feel Taehyung’s pulse beat strong with health.

He orders a plate of large japchae and kimchi jjigae, shoving Taehyung to the most secluded corner booth that is surrounded with translucent dividers. The old lady receives his order with a stoic aura, trudging back to the kitchen afterward. Yoongi gets two glasses of water for both of them and heads to the table, where Taehyung seems uncomfortable and exhausted.

When Yoongi places the cup in front of him, he thanks him almost inaudibly. Yoongi nods curtly, sipping the water.

For a minute, they’re both wordless. Taehyung isn’t certain about how to begin this ‘talk’ too, most definitely. What were you supposed to say to a client that seemed to be in love with you? What were you supposed to say to a client that was too considerate of you since day one? What were you supposed to say to a client that you might as well have broken?

It’s the Kim that shares first.

“I want to apologize.” He breathes, “For… everything. I didn’t mean to… to do that. It felt… _right, _I guess- god, that sounds so hormonal and high school drunken prom night-ish but it’s really what it was like. I… I’m so sorry if I was a hindrance to your job, and… I’m really sorry.”

There’s a lot he can say, argue, ask.

But instead, he remarks, “You’re always the one that apologizes between us.” Taehyung blinks. “Don’t.”

“But… I –“

“Don’t.” He stresses once more, blazing straight into the other’s sphere of attention. “We were both equally at fault. I shouldn’t have committed to it either. You’re not the only in the wrong, so don’t apologize.” _Don’t make that a habit for me, _he doesn’t dare add.

The platter of japchae and bowl of jjigae clang against the wooden table as the old lady drops them from her large metal tray. Taehyung is frozen on the spot from whatever Yoongi just said, as the latter picks up his chopsticks and nibbles on a noodle. That sight seems to wake him up, and the model also devours the japchae hungrily.

The escort discreetly lowers his chopsticks as Taehyung buries his head into the mountain of food – he actually had already chomped down a sandwich for lunch before attending his appointment. He can see color refill the whitely blanched skin of Taehyung’s complexion, much more like the jumpy and energetic man Yoongi knew for the past month and weeks. It alleviates him of the numb ache of his fingertips, ever since he released Taehyung’s fatigued body.

After a while of a repetitive process of spoon, noodles, spoon, noodles, Taehyung raises his head from the plate. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

Yoongi sniffs, “I don’t eat much.”

With a dissatisfied downturn of his puppy snout, Taehyung gently lets the plate of japchae slide towards him. “That’s not good for you, hyung. You should eat more than that.”

_You’re the last person I’d want to hear that from. _“I’m full. You should stock up on your vitamins, proteins, all that crap if you have a packed schedule.”

Taehyung gazes at him for three seconds, until he perks, “Are you worried about me?”

_Huh. _

His blood runs cold, and he can’t really breathe. Is he worried? About a client? About Kim Taehyung?

“I’m just joking, hyung.” Taehyung clarifies softly, but the depressed tone of his voice hints that he was really curious, as he shifts the knot of noodles on the dish with his chopsticks. It reminds Yoongi of how Taehyung reacted that time when they were driving to the cat café, when Yoongi lashed out at him for being too nice. He felt awful then, he still feels awful now.

He does the unthinkable.

“I _am_ worried, Taehyung-ah.”

The raven pauses in doubt, ogling Yoongi as if something has possessed him.

“I’m worried,” He confirms solidly, “So please just eat.”

Much to his demise, Taehyung doesn’t eat. Instead, he drops his chopsticks and spoon. “Why… why are you worried?” _You aren’t supposed to be worried, _is the underlying message.

The truth is, Yoongi knows exactly why he is worried.

But does the truth matter?

His answer comes out as a hushed murmur, “What do you want me to say?”

Taehyung’s jaw tautens. “The truth.”

Of course, to Taehyung, something as meaningful and bright as truth would matter.

“The truth is, Taehyung,” He paces himself out evenly, enunciating every syllable, “That I’m an escort with a fabricated identity. The dates we go on are acts, intricately crafted plays and pieces of art performed by a collaboration of you and me. ‘Why’ I’m worried isn’t the critical factor of our relationship. The truth is that we’re partners – partners in this contract, this business. I haven’t known anything besides this business, and you don’t know anything about this business but a created ‘me’. What you’re talking to is a product, Taehyung, a product that is meant to satisfy needs and wants, nothing more.” He inhales deeply, shutting his eyes and the light out of his world. “What you’ve fallen for is a product, and a product is not worth hurting over.”

He’s the one glued to boring into his knees this time around, as Taehyung questions soothingly, “Why would you say that?”

“You can always replace an escort, Taehyung, that’s how this works.” He has to ignore the blossoming throbbing in his lungs, “Don’t hurt for me like that.”

And all that waits for him is stillness in the air. Taehyung doesn’t respond, and after the pounding of his heart relaxes, Yoongi garners the strength to face upward.

Taehyung has a serene but ethereally exquisite, so wretchedly stunning smile on him, tender and earnest.

“You can’t demand something like that of me, Suga,” He caresses Yoongi’s palm with so much warmth, that it feels like home, just for a second. “Not when you’re not in love with me. Not when you don’t feel like I do.”

Taehyung ascends to his feet as he pulls on his mask again; his sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “I’ll see you later.”

And he departs like a vanishing wind, the warmth of his skin now blazing hot on Yoongi’s nerves.

_“Not when you’re not in love with me.”_

He covers his face with his hands, a stuttering breath eluding from his throat, as he frantically guarded the shattered walls of his heart again.

The truth is, really – the truth is.

The truth is that Min Yoongi is hurting for Kim Taehyung.

Min Yoongi is hurting, because he’s in love with Kim Taehyung.

But to Yoongi, something as capricious and bleak as truth never matters.

***

“Charity work?”

“Yup!”

“Like, community service? The coercive activity I used to do in high school with the absence of my volition?”

“I mean,” Hoseok falters at the negativity, “I swear it’s not all that nasty.” This isn’t how he wanted his self-proclaimed ‘strategy perfecto’ to go. He assumed RM was a ‘community service hooray’ kind of person, but well. Assumptions could be incorrect, after all.

RM, on the other hand, has a very suspicious, cautious scowl plastered over from head to toe, his arms folded. “I, never in my escort history, had a person _pay _me to go serve a community for twenty-four hours or do any sort of charity work.”

“Well, I’m making history here. That’s awesome.”

RM sends him an ‘are-you-for-real’ look and Hoseok beams with the destructivity of a thousand suns. “I honestly have no clue what your ulterior motive is sometimes,” RM accepts his fate, because, well, he’s already taken this assignment. Hoseok had written ‘the contents of my request is top-secret’ on his request box and Namjoon had accepted it. It was literally too late to forfeit now, whether he had to save a kingdom from being consumed by a fire dragon or go on this highly suggestive community service project.

And that’s brilliant, Hoseok deems, because he can’t have his strategy perfecto burning to ashes.

“There really is no ulterior motive, my man,” He chirps blithely, “We have a connection with that orphanage. One of our extremely trusted employees has been adopted-not-really by the Kims from there, and ever since the Kims have extended their support to the whole orphanage. We’re actually lacking in volunteers this year – we recruit people from the company, but everyone’s going on summer vacation and using up stocked holidays – curious, right? I just thought we could use your help, RM.”

“Yes, that’s precisely the origin of my apprehension,” RM explains with a creased brow, “Couldn’t you gather volunteers through, I don’t know, online advertisements, special offers to potential interns, something? You’re actually paying me to do this. That’d be a loss on your part.”

“Well, I see where you’re coming from, but I have a valid reason for wanting your assistance, too. You said you had experience with children, no? And it’s crystal clear that you can sympathize and empathize with others on a higher level than average people – which is ideal for someone serving at an orphanage. Many of these kids have lost their parents before attaining any sort of memory of them, and many were abused – we need someone that can act accordingly to them, someone rational but also emotionally apt. Do you understand me?”

RM seems much more persuaded than before. That encourages Hoseok to go on. “I’d rather have someone skilled and capable than people that are after a title, RM.”

And that nails it – RM loosens. Score for Jung Hoseok, once again.

“Okay.”

The deal is sealed.

_Too easy. _

“Fabulous. Then I’ll see you on the upcoming 27th! I’ll pick you up at the parking lot of the company building, and then we’ll be traveling to Busan from thereon! Oh, you can read more about the orphanage in this pamphlet right here. Call me- actually, that’s forbidden, isn’t it? My apologies. Talk to me through Taemin-ssi if you need anything or have any questions!” Before RM can retort or change his decision, Hoseok skips out of the office and traipses down the staircase, to the car where Jungkook is waiting for him.

He swings the door open and hops in, fastening the seatbelt over his body and hastily ordering at Jungkook to step on the gas immediately.

“I think I’ve asked this before, but why are you doing this again?” Jungkook interrogates keenly, already vexed that Hoseok forced him out from bed six in the morning to drive him here, mainly because Seokjin was using the secretary’s car for a personal emergency. “I don’t really like this place.”

“The Kims just have a kink for escorts, Kookie.” Hoseok hums and Jungkook gapes a little at him. “I swear, I deserve a raise for all that I do for my boss. I am literally the solution to his ninety-nine problems.”

“Taehyung would say otherwise.”

“Can Taehyungie play Cupid for his brother effectively and _also_ fill in a vacant spot of the company’s annual community service volunteer list?”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything.

“That’s what I thought.”

He really deserves that pay raise.

***

Despite his altruistic public image, Kim Seokjin is not exactly fond of children.

It’s not like he hates them or anything, he just doesn’t know how to deal with them. He’s three years apart with his own brother and most of his friends and he has always been the eldest, but that doesn’t necessarily indicate that he was the most mature. Out of the four them, in fact, Jungkook was the one that had grown the fastest. Seokjin still barely contained himself whenever he saw someone playing Mario Kart.

The annual visit to the orphanage is a dilemma, naturally. His parents maintained the service for their reputation of ‘hospitable benefactors’ – which Seokjin considers fraud and all for show, but he retracts his sardonic remarks whenever he remembers that that’s the entire backstory of how Jungkook flew into their lives on one very cold March evening.

He flips the pages of his binder in a lax motion, skimming the introductions and printed profiles of their volunteers this year. They were all young, straight out of elite universities and all that jazz, and Seokjin could honestly care less. All those SKY kids were thirsting for a position in this highly competitive Korean society that he felt weighted, born into a prestigious family right off the bat. He counts the pages, and blinks once, then twice. He counts again.

“Jungkook?”

“Hm?”

“Aren’t we supposed to have one more volunteer? The spot I told Hoseok to fill?”

“Ah, yeah, it’s solved.”

“Okay,” He taps his finger against the metal rings of the binder, “Then where’s he or she’s profile?”

“Oh, it’s not there? I guess Hoseok-hyung missed,” Jungkook shrugs from the rearview mirror, switching between the radio channels singlehandedly and adjusting the volume. “No worries, I’m sure he was a decent guy. It’s not like you ever memorize their names anyway.”

Touché, but the fact that Hoseok ‘missed’ is what has Seokjin’s stomach lurching, just a little. Hoseok never _misses, _that’s the thing. He’s been Seokjin’s secretary since day one, and he had never been negligent with his duties, ever, whether it was minor or major. He hums in assent, while the cogs in his mind crank against one another. _This is one of Hoseok’s schemes, _he warns himself, _he’s doing something again, and I hope it’s something I can tolerate it with grace. _

Busan is a lengthy ride, and the traffic from the summer vacation craze doesn’t ameliorate the increasing heat in his car. Their aircon is perfectly functional, but it must be the ridiculously crowded cars and vehicles that tweak with his psychological perception. Where _is _Hoseok, anyway? He said he had a personal appointment scheduled and that he couldn’t make it in the afternoon, but Hoseok always knew better than to not have his emergencies overlap with Seokjin’s business.

Fishy.

They stop at a rest stop on the highway, and Seokjin purchases a pack of sweet potato fries, his all-time favorite. His parents had scolded him since his childhood days, that he shouldn’t eat everything so thoughtlessly, but with Seokjin’s colleagues fainting from the slightest virus outbreak or influenza spreading around school because of their fragile immune system, he thanked his younger self’s reckless wisdom. Jungkook settles for the sausage-rice cake stick combo, as he delightfully chomps away at his snack. Seokjin scrolls down his phone for any new updates from Hoseok, but all that the secretary has for him is that he’s going to be an hour late than their expected arrival.

“Kook, do you have any clue as to what Hoseokie’s up to?”

“Hyung?” Jungkook’s words are muffled from the remnants of sausage in his mouth, “Dunno. He’s your secretary, hyung, you should know him best.”

“I don’t know if you remember, but my secretary also tricked the whole high school campus into trusting that our family housed two hundred dolphins when we were students.”

“Right, that happened.” Jungkook clucks his tongue, “I wonder how he does it.”

“So do I,” Seokjin accedes as he dumps the empty paper bowl of fries into the bin. “How many hours till Busan?”

Jungkook turns on his phone and glances down at the navigation app. “Around two hours. Are we in a hurry?”

“No, it’s fine. I was just concerned about the traffic since you’d have to drive back to Seoul after dropping me off. Think you can avoid the rush hour?”

“There’s no avoiding or whatsoever, hyung, my boss needs me by seven, sharp. There’s this variety show airing this season on TVN and he got a call as the guest panel. I honestly don’t think he should be on TV right now, in his current state, but it’s ultimately his choice.” Rueful, Jungkook seems disgruntled as he dusts off the crumbs on his legs and steps back into the car.

A pang thuds in Seokjin as he imagines his derailed brother. “Is he eating? Don’t tell me he’s skipping meals again – he went to the ER after that one Seoul Fashion Week or whatever and I –“

“He ate last night, hyung, don’t fret,” Jungkook reassures, gripping the steering wheel. “I’ve been trying to have him consume something other than his protein bars and croissants, but he got proper food yesterday. You should concentrate on your tasks, hyung, you’re occupied as is.”

“You can’t tell me to not freak out over my brother, Kook-ah.”

“I’m just saying.”

The remainder of their journey consists of the low buzz of music that echoes from the car’s speakers, along with the brief drizzle of rain as they pass by the shore. Seokjin reminisces his childhood when he camped with his four best friends out in Ulsan, where Jimin caught a baby fish and felt so bad about it that he was determined to deliver the flapping poor fish to the hospital. His friends all advised that the fish would dry to death before he ever reached the hospital, and Jimin was just saddened to impossible heights. In the end, they all gave up on fishing and went to the closest barbeque diner instead.

He thinks he was happy, at least then. When he wasn’t as bound to the expectations of his parents, when he wasn’t as devastated from his inescapable fate, and when he wasn’t having an emotional breakdown at the frequency of a goddamned cosine graph, with almost periodical highs and lows. And then the problem of inheritance was mentioned, along with rightful heirs and formal conduct, which magically led to a binding engagement.

Yoo Leejung is a good man, in every sense of the word. After the passing of his parents, he was left with the responsibility to support the family business, and he was dexterous in the act. He revived the toppling system of the company impressively and was even noted in the Top 20 Most Influential CEOs Under the Age of 30 in some economics magazine. And moreover, he cares – he cares about Seokjin.

But there’s only so much that such a good man can care about.

He cares about the relationship and connection that he has with his fiancé, Kim Seokjin.

He doesn’t bother to discover more about who Kim Seokjin really is, what _he _cares about, what actually matters to the man other than their undesired marriage and chillingly desolate shared apartment. He would never realize how much having a partner in attendance at his father’s social meet mattered to Seokjin. He’d never realize how much that cup of cheap coffee mattered to Seokjin that ungodly morning. He’d never realize how sensitive Seokjin was to scents, how he abhorred the citric tang of oranges.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that they can’t fall in love.

And Seokjin, who knows that better than anyone, has attempted to ignore the blatantly obvious.

It was working smoothly, he’d claim, if only one very rude escort that dared to intrude his premises hadn’t interrupted him.

Not that Seokjin expects they’d meet again. That outburst at the party had partly been due to his pent up feelings about Leejung, but it also was a defense mechanism that activated in response to RM and the effect he had on Seokjin. The man heightened Seokjin’s senses, piqued his interest, and possessed the ability to attract another person with just the eloquence of speech. And Seokjin couldn’t permit himself to be drawn in again – he couldn’t repeat his mistake from then. From the time he’d fallen for an escort.

“We’re here, hyung,” Jungkook pushes down on the brakes, and the full view of a pink-painted building stands upon them, surrounded in tall white fences and bushes of wildflowers, an apple tree that Taehyung planted years ago looming over the second floor of the orphanage. He comes every year, but the place never seems to change in appearance. “You think you can go inside alone? Hoseok-hyung actually texted me a minute ago, that he cheated and got on the shortcut and has been there for the past twenty minutes or so. Shouldn’t be challenging to spot him from the crowd.”

“Yeah, drive safe, Jungkookie. Watch out for the motorbikes and trucks.”

“I’ll see you in two days, hyung.”

And with that, the black car disappears from his sight. Seokjin inhales deeply and regards the orphanage once again – some of the paint is chipped off, revealing the gray structure beneath it, and there’s a crack in one of the glass windows on the third floor. The garden of daisies has weeds growing amongst it, and the stone path that guides guests to the entrance is wobbly, with some stones completely shattered. Seokjin mentally jots down all the improvements that could be made, and finally gets to the doormat of the orphanage – the ‘welcome’ mat is worn down and torn apart in the left upper corner. He should purchase a brand new one for that, too.

With a twist of the door handle, he walks inside – and is at awe at how well-preserved everything is. The wooden furniture, the green shelves, the yellow tables, and the petite toy kitchen set off to the side is exactly how everything was placed last year. A couple of kids peer up from their clay pots and dolls as if a fictional creature in storybooks has stumbled into their home. Seokjin flashes a friendly smile at them and asks, “Do any of you know where’s Miyeon-ssi?”

All of them exchange confuddled looks until one of the older kids points silently at a room situated on the right-wing. Seokjin nods at the girl and pats her on the head as he heads to the room. He can hear murmurs and short pauses between the conversations, and the familiar chirp of his secretary beyond the door. Without much hesitation, he turns the brass knob and enters –

It’s confusion and chaos, at the very least.

From what he can process, there is a man – above average height, with what seems to be ash-blond hair, parted at the forehead but not styled or gelled. He’s in a comfortable checkered button-down and baggy jeans, in the middle of listening to Kang Miyeon, the caretaker and owner of the orphanage, with a northward curve of his glossed lips. He’s also someone that Seokjin is acquainted with very well, someone that Seokjin hasn’t wanted to see for at least two centuries.

The man seems equally shocked to spot him right there, and there’s a lasting contact of their wavering orbs.

The final thought that Seokjin has before his mind completely whites out is –

_My fucking god, he’s hot in casual clothes. _


	8. A Story of Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Page by page, the story is revealed. This is just the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely my favorite chapter so far!! We finally get to know what happened to Yoongi and Taehyung's childhood and is that character development I'm sensing??? 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for all the kudos and comments per usual, guys! I don't know what I'd do without you all :)

_October was Yoongi’s favorite month of the year. _

_There was never a specific reason why – his family didn’t celebrate Halloween because the custom hadn’t settled in until the late 2000s, and the autumn of Daegu wasn’t at all welcoming as it would be in the port cities. His father was never home during the expanse of the month due to the peak of activity in his company, and his mother was still recuperating from the exhaustive Chuseok preparations that she had to do for the family. His brother hung out with his own band of friends, while Yoongi was left alone to roam about the neighborhood in his tiny fake Converse sneakers. _

_Loitering about their village with a radius of some measly kilometers was an adventure to the child that was Yoongi – he’d poke at a ripened fruit rolling on the soil with a stick, hop on a seesaw as he maneuvered the ascension of the board, follow a trail of pigeons or cats into their rendezvous of dry leaves and thorny branches, and discover secret passages that went from one side of the village to the other. None of his parents were around to nag about his feistiness or question his whereabouts, and his brother was growing bored of ‘playing around’ with his little brother in games of hide-and-seek or tag. So of course, Yoongi selected lazy afternoons where none of his family members were present and took off on his missions. _

_His favorite place to be, however, was the antique music store in the west wing of the village, where his parents forbid him from going to because that was where the ‘bad people’ and the ‘hooligans’ sauntered about. Personally, Yoongi saw nobody that fit the description – sure, there was a cranky lady by the second street that went ‘tsk, tsk’ whenever she saw Yoongi tiptoe by, but he also witnessed her complaining at the yowling of a cat while feeding it simultaneously. She didn’t seem like a bad person. There was also a grandpa with a crinkled face and squinting eyes that always gazed up at the sun, his cane atop his lap and a thick Bible on the space next to him. He was muttering something about heaven and the Holy Spirit the last time Yoongi passed by, but he didn’t even seem like he noticed the boy. _

_So of course, he frequently visited the store against the warning of his parents. The owner – a middle-aged man with dark nails and a cut through his right brow, always in a white dress shirt and black pants and rectangular spectacles – would nod at him in acknowledgment, and Yoongi would nod back with a short jut of his chin. He would then proceed to toy with the instruments on the stands, pressing down on one of the white piano keys, then the black ones. There was a shiny, golden phonograph to the right of the grand piano, softly playing a piece from one of the composers of the day that the owner chose at whim. Yoongi could spend his entire day there, plucking at the strings of an un-tuned violin or blowing experimentally into a clarinet without the reed. He went throughout the whole year, as often as he could in between school and home, but October was the easiest month for the pursuit of his private hobby. _

_And that October morning had been no different from the ordinary – Yoongi squirmed his chubby toes into the sneakers that were now too tight for his feet and buttoned his coffee-shade coat up to his neck. Twisting the knob quietly, he scuffled outside, excited and enthralled once again. _

_He waved at the cranky woman down the second street, and she didn’t wave back – just sent him a cynical snort and an indignant huff. He bowed to the old man on the bench, and he spared a moment to examine Yoongi once over, but soon resumed to his daydreaming. A normal day. _

_The golden bells of the store chimed as he pressed his back against the stubby wood of the door. The owner nodded at him habitually, and so did Yoongi, before he trotted off to the grand piano. There was some jazz music playing from the phonograph, and Yoongi tried his best to imitate the notes of the melody, but it was quite futile – the piano didn’t have quite the same sounds like the saxophone that was blasting away mightily. After an hour or two, he hopped off the bench and scampered over to the shelf of flutes, each one displayed in a row, delicately perched slightly above the surface. He liked observing flutes – they were silver and shiny, reflecting his pudgy face in a very comical, outstretched manner. _

_“There’s actually a new flute that a friend of mine offered,” A breathy voice resounded from the counter – it was the owner. Yoongi gaped, because he never heard the man talk to him outright, other than when he was answering his customers. “Would you take a look?”_

_He nodded vivaciously, a smile spreading across his round face. The man rummaged through a cardboard box and took out a leather case from it, “Handle it with much care. It’s very important.” Yoongi gulped before enwrapping his fingers around the long, rectangular case. It was like that time when his mother had requested him to guard her necklace for her – the sparkly necklace made of pretty gems. Careful, careful. _

_When he lifted the lid, he was mesmerized by the sight – a golden flute, unlike the plain silver ones on the shelves sat elegantly in the case, shielded with velvet red fabric. He didn’t dare touch it, fearful that his nails might scratch the beautiful keys, but he crouched down on the floor for ages as he stared, stared, and stared. _

_Perhaps it was another hour like that until the owner finally cleared his throat._

_“Shouldn’t you be heading home?” _

_And he snapped upward in panic – it was already pitch-dark outside. His parents – were they back home? What about his brother? Was it past dinnertime? He could feel his cheeks rush with blood and his hands turn clammy as he hurriedly shut the case and returned it to the man. Before he sprinted off, he asked, “Can I,” He gasped, “Can I look at it again, tomorrow?” _

_The bespectacled man beamed softly under the dim candlelight. “Of course.” _

_Warmth splashing his cheeks like a summer beach, Yoongi flashed a blinding, toothy smile at the man, and dashed out into the streets. _

_It was midnight all over. _

_He had failed to realize that the lamps at this side of town hadn’t been repaired or supplanted for a number of years, with half of them blinking precariously and the others completely knocked out of life. The autumn wind was chilling against the back of his ears, the mere furs of his coat tickling his neck enough to make him yelp. _

_The eerie caution of his parents rung in his head – ‘bad people’, ‘hooligans’. But what could go wrong? He was brave, his age approaching the double-digits now. His brother rattled on about the tales of when he explored a haunted house with his friends or that dare in school of who could stay on campus the entire night. His brother had succeeded, although with the fair chiding of his parents. If Joongi could, surely he could, too. _

_He balled his petite hands into fists, and trudged ahead the endless road, holding back a gasp when he stepped on a wobbly cement tile. The urge to faint right then and there overwhelmed him, but he shook his head and advanced. He was fine, he was fine. Home couldn’t be too far away – right? _

_It was when he had almost tripped over an elevated pavement when he sensed someone trailing behind him. _

_He had always been skilled at sensing others – he spent a great deal of time trying to track down his brother when they were younger, playing their little games. The ‘tsk, tsk’ of his parents filled his brain as he suppressed the desire to spin around and check for his follower. _I’m just scaring myself, _he convinced his mind, stiffly taking another step towards the path. _

_But after he heeded the scuff of what sounded like the soles of shoes against the ground, Yoongi knew all too well that this couldn’t be safe. He was young, but he sat around too many days in the living room watching the news with his father, all the blaring headlines about ‘child kidnapping’ and ‘increased incidents of human trafficking’, whatever horrible things those were. _

_With panic thumping in his vessels, Yoongi ran. _

_A hushed swear word echoed from behind, as the scuffing of soles became louder by seconds, Yoongi focusing on his feet and bemoaning his short legs and lack of stamina, unlike his brother that had always enjoyed skipping around outdoors. _

_“You fucking brat –“_

Nononono_no –_

_He choked on his saliva as a vice-like grip clawed at his arm, nails digging into the soft skin of his throat. Nothing escaped his mouth except short breaths and pants, as he wheezed for air, his own hands battling to tear the suffocating grasp around his neck. _

_“What’s a kid like you roamin’ the streets at night for, hm?” The man was wearing a mask – the sclera of his eye was yellow, his teeth holding a bestial semblance to fangs, reeking of something pungent and acrimonious that made Yoongi want to breathe and not breathe simultaneously. The grip on his arm loosened as new fingers traced the curve of Yoongi’s cheek, despite Yoongi’s raspy whimpers. _

_This was how he was going to die, without being able to say farewell to his brother or parents, without being able to touch that grand piano again, breaking his promise with that owner for the flute – _

_This was how it was going to end. _

“Fu –“

He tugs at his blankets and coughs, his pupils dilated in fear and legs numb. His body is drenched in cold sweat and his heart is going crazy as if he had just run a marathon thrice. Collecting room for breath, his eyes dart about his room. Everything is in order, he’s not out in the streets, there’s no hand clutching at his throat, and he’s safe.

A dream.

It’s a dream.

“Thank god,” He whispers, his voice unsteady. “Thank fucking god.” The clock reads 5:42 AM, and he curses. He didn’t have to wake up till eight, but he isn’t going to fall back to sleep anytime soon in this state. He’s a little warm too, and it’s certainly not because of the nightmare. He couldn’t be getting sick, could he? He has always been prone to summer fevers, ever since he was a child, but that was usually in July. It’s still May, almost June, but still May nonetheless.

The adrenaline still coursing through him, he attempts to sink into his mattress and calm down. He hasn’t had that nightmare in ages, not since the day he quit the S ward. It was a childhood memory he repressed, an event in life in which nobody but he was present to remind. Why would he relive that now?

He caresses his Adam’s apple, and tiredly wishes how he wasn’t alone in his room, how he longed for human warmth; how he needed someone to rub his back and snuggle into the nook of his neck, mumbling into his hair that he was going to be fine; how he wanted someone to assure him that the night was peaceful and quiet again.

Begrudgingly, he imagines Taehyung to be the one to do all this.

Taehyung drawing circles on his back with his cool fingers, Taehyung murmuring nonsense and comforting words sleepily, Taehyung draping an arm over Yoongi and bringing him closer to his taller body.

Somewhere along the lines of drifting back to sleep, Yoongi realizes that he doesn’t want the actions themselves, but Taehyung that is performing those actions.

He wants Taehyung.

***

Kim Namjoon seriously considers murder as he never has before in his lifetime.

It’s plain that Jung Hoseok is a menace. That guy deserved to be sued for all his criminal lies and aggravatingly innocent smile. Namjoon could see why he was the self-proclaimed most desired secretary of Korea – he’s useful to have at your side. Not when you’re opponents, apparently – Namjoon is understanding that the hard way.

He ensures that he communicates this message across as he scrubs the soiled dishes with much vigor, a bubbly sponge in his hand and Hoseok’s shirt collar in another.

“You know, RM, I don’t know about you but I gotta be over in the playground for the kids –“

“I hate you so effin’ much.”

“Why ‘effin’?”

“I don’t swear around kids.”

“I knew you’d be perfect for this- _owowowowww –“ _Hoseok whines as Namjoon’s grip on his shirt becomes tighter. “Oh, come on. You never asked whether my boss was going to tag along or not.”

Namjoon sucks in a stale breath, placing a bowl onto the drying rack. “I wouldn’t have accepted if I was aware that this ‘community service project’ was for your boss’s public image.”

Hoseok casts him a funny look as he tries to wriggle out of Namjoon’s fists with no avail. “Believe it or not, this is not for Seokjin-hyung’s public image. I wasn’t lying when I said one of our very trusted employees is from this orphanage. He does it out of his own heart.”

“Like every rich heir of Korea ever said.”

“I mean, do you see any cameras around?” Hoseok inquires, and Namjoon clucks his tongue at that. “Jin-hyung indeed does launch projects for public images – like saving injured turtles and whatnot – but that’s pretty rare. It’s not like he needs those, anyway.”

“Hm, and why’s that?”

Hoseok sticks his lips out and waves his hand in front of his face jovially, “Beauty is power.”

Namjoon snorts and rolls his eyes, rinsing the surface of another plate. “He’s not even that hot.” _Fuck, I sound so convincing right now. _Even Hoseok chuckles at that one, shaking his head helplessly.

“My friend, my friend. There are truths in this world, no matter what happens. One of those truths is that Kim Seokjin is the epitome of _hot._” Namjoon puffs at the statement and averts his attention to the dishes in the sink. He can sense Hoseok’s darting orbs on him, and purposefully scrubs the plastic with more force. There’s an uncharacteristic silence from the secretary, and Namjoon pauses, glancing in the man’s direction. Hoseok’s fondling with the chain necklace hanging over his chest, a perplexed, thoughtful crease between his brows.

Before Namjoon can sigh and question him, Hoseok parts his mouth. “Can I tell you a story?”

The escort fixates his gaze on the male, but soon grabs a towel on the counter for his dripping hands and yields. “Go on.”

“There was this rich boy, y’ know. Had everything – money, palaces, and wonders of the world. Everyone looks up to him. Everyone wants to be him. Everyone yearns to live in a castle of gold, just like him. And there was this poor boy – had a wallet made of cheap fabric, a house that can spur claustrophobia, with hand-me-downs from his sibling. By some miracle, the poor boy meets the rich boy at the castle of gold. The rich boy and poor boy become friends, and the poor boy visits the castle like it’s his home. But then he begins to see them – the thorns, the gold chipping away, and the darkness. The flaws of the seemingly ideal home. How the rich boy never actually had everything – how nothing in that castle was his to touch, just as much as the poor boy.”

Namjoon is queasy, his stomach churning in discomfort. “And how does the story end?”

Hoseok smiles a little. “It hasn’t.”

_There was a rich boy._

“I know what Seokjin-hyung said was… well, offensive- correction, fuckery. Utter fuckery, I know. You’re justified in your reaction and I sympathize with you, but can you please just give him a chance?”

And for a split second, Namjoon is certain that Hoseok is going to break down on the spot, with the crack of his voice and genuine spark in his pupils. “… And why isn’t he the one asking, even now?”

“Because RM. Why do you think the rich boy never tried to evade the castle?” It’s a rhetorical question – he’s aware of that much, at least, in this analogy he doesn’t want to recognize.

“Because he believed he never deserved to.”

And at that moment, Namjoon pulls himself back to Seokjin’s tart tone when he explained the history of his family’s crown, how he dampened when Namjoon brought up the topic of his partner.

_If I take this again, I’m a fucking pushover._

_Pushover, pushover, a pushover. _

_Kim Namjoon, stop being such a damned pushover._

“… _God_, fine, I’ll talk to him.”

Hoseok chuckles cheerfully. “You’re the best.”

_Hello, I’m Kim Namjoon, the pushover. _

Now that the fact that he’s a pushover is settled, Kim Namjoon actually has to fulfill his promise.

The thing is, he’s a pretty smart guy. Valedictorian in high school, the pet of all teachers, the wannabe model of all the students – all to placate the greed of his parents. But putting that aside, he’s not as screwed in the brain to misunderstand Hoseok’s story of the rich boy’s fate in the golden castle. It’s not solely Hoseok’s pleading that induced him to this stage – it’s also Namjoon’s inquisitiveness.

He’s the only one to blame, really.

_Am I actually a masochist? _He solemnly ponders, as he dabs at a yellow stain on the wallpaper. _Why do I bind myself to this torture? _The rag in his fist dries after a few minutes of his contemplation, and Namjoon urges his feet back to retrieve a bucket of water. It’s as if he’s gone back to high school – they used to go on those training camps, where they’d do manual labor and suffer, only to huddle around a gigantic campfire in the nighttime and cry their hearts out while the coach lectured them about parental love.

Homesickness has never been an issue for Namjoon, though. His parents were the stereotypical Asians, obsessive over his academic value and disposition in society. He still wasn’t quite certain to this day – whether his parents actually held some kind of affection for him, or were simply there because of the red ‘A’ on his tests.

“Ah, shoot.”

He shudders out of his daydream upon hearing a soft murmur from his side. There is a tuft of dark hair blocking his vision of the corroded faucet, with a faint saline scent. The oddly crooked fingers of the man twist the faucet’s handle, but neither of them sees any water rushing down.

“Crap, please don’t tell me I broke this.” There’s a shrill tone of panic in the guy’s voice, and Namjoon recognizes him right away with some panic of his own. That’s when the hair swivels around and the eyes turn to Namjoon – “Hey, I’m sorry but do you know how to fix…” Seokjin’s anxious face contorts in horror, and Namjoon has to say, it doesn’t suit Seokjin very well.

But, Kim Namjoon is a pushover and he made a promise. That means he does what has to be done.

“C’mon, I’ll do it.” He grunts, swatting Seokjin out of the way. The older Kim nods, albeit cautiously. Namjoon squats down and grips the handle of the faucet, and pulls as hard as he can.

The handle breaks out of its hinges.

_Well, that was not supposed to happen. _

“Please don’t tell me you broke that.” Seokjin dreads flatly, his nose scrunched in disbelief.

“I’m sure I can just screw it back in.” He contends weakly, mangling the handle into its fallen hinges again. After three futile attempts, the truth sinks in and the faucet also explodes. “Fuck.”

“OHMYGODYOUBROKEIT –“

“It’s fine, just give me a second and I’ll –“

“No. _No. _You are not touching a single thing in these premises. And fuck, get your hand _off _the faucet.”

“No, I swear I can –“

“RM, I’m damn serious that I’ll cut off your hand.”

“I’m _Hyungjoon _right now, don’t call me RM.” Regardless, he detaches himself from the handle as Seokjin freaks over the destruction done. He had momentarily forgotten, but Yoongi had dubbed him the God of Destruction once upon a time, when he used to shatter all those coffee mugs and magically trip over an electric chord, only to shut down the electric appliances of the entire department.

Seokjin battles with the damaged parts and glowers at Namjoon, “How did you even _do _this?”

He shrugs in response, and the man inhales sharply. “I should’ve known.”

As it turns out, the faucet is definitely malfunctioning after his touch of Midas, and Seokjin is the one that informs Miyeon about it the hazard. Namjoon watches the scene unfold rather helplessly, as Seokjin assures the woman that he’ll take responsibility and reimburse for it. Miyeon giggles, humored by the chaos, and pats Seokjin on the shoulder comfortingly. “It’s alright, we needed to buy a new one, anyway. You facilitated the task for us.”

“I’m really sorry,” Namjoon apologizes wholeheartedly for the fourth time, “I thought I was being gentle.”

“Oh, no. It’s encouraging to know that there are still volunteers willing to support our orphanage. We thank you for your enthusiasm – what really matters is that you don’t hurt yourself.” Miyeon is very kind about everything, and she coaxes the children to go back to their playgrounds as the faucet overflows with an enlarging pool of water beneath it.

“I’ve contacted a maintenance company – they should be arriving soon.” Seokjin scrolls through his phone with a frustrated crease between his brows.

“No worries, I believe you. Why don’t you clean those stained walls instead? I think Hyungjoon-ssi was on that earlier.” Miyeon advises shrewdly, and Seokjin pales a little as if he’s just realized that Namjoon was standing by him for the past thirty minutes. “Ah, I actually have to prepare dinner for the kids now. Does curry rice sound alright to both of you?”

“Sounds scrumptious, Miyeon-ssi.” Namjoon smiles courteously, as the woman beams and briskly walks back over to the orphanage building. They are silent until she closes the wooden door behind her steps, as the escort puffs, “Well, I think we ought to clean the walls now.”

Seokjin ogles him as if he’s insane. Then, he points back and forth between the two of their bodies, “_We_?”

“I don’t know, is there anyone else other than you and I here?”

“I,” The heir gapes, his jaw about to collide into the soil, but he soon snaps it back. “Okay.”

They have to travel to the opposite side of the establishment for the other set of sinks, and Namjoon dips his bucket under the faucet (functional, for once) and waits for the water to fill to the brim. Seokjin does the same, with the unconcealed effort to avoid Namjoon, his mouth clamped and zipped. The journey back to the dusty room is wordless, with only the shuffling of their shoes and the characteristic echoes of waves of water bouncing against the surface of the buckets rising into the air. It’s awkward and tense in every sense, and Namjoon has no idea how to lighten the mood.

In place of a conversation, they both grab their rags and soak the cloth into their buckets of water and scrub at the stains on the walls. With their backs faced against each other’s, Namjoon has no clue as to what Seokjin is doing – although judging by the noise, he seems to be cleaning quite diligently. That’s when a question strikes him.

“Why aren’t you playing with the kids?” If Seokjin visited annually, that meant that some of the children would also be acquainted with the man. The squishing of the rag ceases, as Namjoon grits his teeth while rubbing his rag against an impossible maroon patch that he presumes to be ketchup or some weird chili paste.

“I’m, uh. Not compatible with children under the age of thirteen.”

Well, isn’t that a surprise. Seokjin, with the public reputation of a saint, incompatible with kids? Namjoon can’t wrap his head around the confession. “Aren’t you only three years apart from your brother?”

“Taehyung is- Taehyung was _different_.”

“How so?”

There’s an eerie, weighty quiet that follows, and Namjoon stops as well. Seokjin is boring his eyes into the dripping wall, the rag saturated and hung over the rim of the bucket. “He grew up too early,” Seokjin finally says, his back straight and head perfectly perpendicular to the floor, “I never had to look after him.”

Namjoon remembers the random article he read online: an interview of Seokjin from years back, and how Seokjin answered that he could die for his brother. In parenthesis, it said ‘(laugh)’, as if to accentuate the effect of jest, but the black print on the page was too sincere for the response to be a joke. “He must be very important to you,” Namjoon selects his phrases circumspectly, not desiring for this interaction to head to the sewers like last time.

The ramrod straight posture falters slightly as Seokjin mumbles, “He is.” There’s an elongated pause, but Namjoon can sense that there’s more that the other wants to express. “But that doesn’t justify what I said to your friend.”

It’s a peculiar feeling.

To be sitting across Seokjin, the man’s back and round head towards him, in a dimly lit room with dirty walls, hearing an apology long overdue. Well, not exactly an apology, but an admittance of wrongdoing. It’s peculiar because Namjoon isn’t quite placated. Had he ever wanted an apology, anyway?

_No. _It dawns upon him; _I never really wanted that, did I?_

“It’s fine,” He’s not sure whether he’s saying that to reassure Seokjin or to convince himself.

“It’s not, though.” Seokjin finally, finally faces his direction and looks a little startled to notice that Namjoon has already turned around. Nonetheless, he continues, “Hoseok scolded me afterward. He jabbed me here and there, about how I’d feel if someone said that to him or Jungkook, or anyone I cared about. For me, that wouldn’t be fine – so… I’m sorry about what I said.” His voice is stifled despondence, and something in Namjoon stirs.

_There was a rich boy. _

_There was a rich boy who had nothing. _

“He,” Namjoon ignores the pit growing in his stomach, “He’s a little constipated when it comes to emotions – my friend. He’s always too afraid, too wary – but he really,” He licks the bottom of his lip, “He really cares a lot about your brother.”

“I’d hope so,” Seokjin snorts, “My little brother is impossible to push away. Attractive, in every sense of the word.”

Namjoon intuitively feels Yoongi’s vibes from the man, although he can’t exactly place his finger on the reason why. “So are you.”

Seokjin freezes into a block of ice, his pupils blown wide and scarlet lips parted, his sweaty bangs curtaining his forehead. Then he bursts into laughter, doubling over and shaking all over. “You escorts,” He gasps for breath and wheezes, “You’re all the same.” Namjoon has heard this on several occasions: Seokjin lolled over the table of a barbeque diner, Seokjin at the party, and just Seokjin in general with his particular abhorrence towards his profession.

It might be the first time he’s seen Seokjin utter the sentence as he laughs.

Or the first time he’s seen Seokjin laugh at all.

He can understand why – it’s not a very pretty laugh, not very classy and dignified either. It’s around two hundred decibels too loud, holding the semblance of a fifty-year-old windshield wiper, bubbly and uncontained for the entire universe to hear. It’s a stark contrast of the expressions of Kim Seokjin he’s accustomed to – Seokjin’s expressions of pain, guilt, remorse, and acrimony. The worst was at the Kim’s social meet, where Seokjin’s dark chocolate orbs wavered in fear and underlying hatred – hatred aimed towards himself – looking as if he wanted to break down right then and there and dissipate into the atmosphere.

And then, he comprehends the source of his paranoia.

He didn’t want an apology.

He just, for once, wanted to see Seokjin smile.

(_Because Namjoon doesn’t think he can tolerate Seokjin’s façade breaking down in front of him. It’s the last thing he wants or needs._)

_It’s beautiful. _

Namjoon allows the epiphany to settle in, as Seokjin calms himself down with another round of his windshield wiper laugh.

***

“Go back home, Suga.”

“Like fuck I am.”

“Yes, like fuck you are.” Taemin bluntly orders, and the crassness of his language juxtaposed with the pink camellia blossoms in his vase is quite funny. Unfortunately, Yoongi isn’t in the mood to crack a joke about this, because _fuck _he dragged his body from his apartment to the company and waited for a long ass hour until Taemin was done with his emergency appointment and now the man wants him to _fuck off_. “I can’t afford the risk of you infecting a client and sullying our rep.”

A dull headache pounds against his eardrums. “I need my money, Taemin, just hand me the files.”

“I’ll give you a bonus, so go home.”

“Bonus month isn’t for another two months, Taemin, don’t shit with me right now –“

“I do what I wish with my policies, Suga. I’ll give you a bonus if I decide that I want to.”

He guffaws exasperatedly, “Yeah, and the authorities will be _so _enchanted.”

“I keep telling you this, but,” Taemin leans back on his leather chair, “The authorities have other pressing priorities than a Head Escort playing favorites, or the same Head Escort dating a hotshot actor.”

“You’re dating an actor? Which one?”

“The hottest one, of course.” Taemin replies smugly, “But don’t change the topic. I might as well fire you if you insist on accepting an assignment.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, “You’re never going to fire me, Taemin.”

“I won’t, you’re right.” Taemin accedes wisely, “But I won’t give you the portfolios either. Leave, Suga.”

“It’s just a _fever, _Jesus Christ – it’s not Ebola, I haven’t contracted any STDs either. You’re overreacting –“

“Nuh-uh. I’ll remind you since you’ve seemed to have eradicated this from the array of your memories, but last year February, you muttered that identical sentence and you almost drowned to death in the most expensive swimming pool of South Korea. Do you know how _troublesome _it was to prevent leaks of information from the hospital, to bribe the reporters into not publishing a headline titled, ‘BREAKING NEWS: HEIR OF SAMSUNG AND ESCORT IN LOVE’? I am _not _doing a re-run of that galactic disaster.” He wears a ‘you-dare-defy-me-right-now’ face, and Yoongi has nothing to argue against _that. _He still grimaces when he thinks about the incident. Taemin sighs, “I absolutely refuse to have my lifespan shortened again by you, Yoongi.”

“You’re just too preoccupied with everything.”

“Say what you want, but I prefer you breathing and alive.” Taemin then cocks his head to the left, “Have you gone to a doctor yet?”

Yoongi huffs indignantly. “It’s just a _fever, _I can pop in a Tylenol and recover. Besides, there’s only _that_ hospital around this area – the one where I was rushed into the ER. They’ll definitely recognize who I am, and it’s going to cause a racket – I don’t need another fuss like that, at least for another year. So unless I think I’m diagnosed with cancer, I won’t go there again.”

The Head Escort nods, “That’s true, but you should still have a doctor you can reach out to for help in cases of emergency. Here, I’ll write a number down for you – it’s a doctor the more exposed escorts go to.” Scribbling down the digits, Taemin glimpses at the screen of his laptop and copies the number and shoves it into Yoongi’s chest. “Make sure to call him when your fever doesn’t subside.”

“Alright, alright, I got it,” Yoongi grumbles as he folds the paper and slides it into his pocket. “Don’t forget to transfer that thick bonus to my account.”

“Sure, sure.”

With that, he exits the office, somewhat sick of the sweet fragrance of camellias in the room. Whoever this hotshot actor is, he must be a guy with a floral fetish. Or maybe Taemin had a floral fetish, Yoongi doesn’t know – he’s been driven to cliffs of boredom, but not to the point where he wondered what Taemin’s fetishes were.

It’s not his day, obviously – he should’ve known from the moment he woke from his nightmare. He always had the worst fevers after that nightmare as well – as if his body was conditioned. Medicine scarcely ameliorated the sickness, but it never hurt to be safe. He strolls to the nearest pharmacy and curtly explains his condition to the lady in the white gown. As she enters her room with shelves of various pills, Yoongi pulls out the folded note from Taemin. He’s really only written the number, nothing else.

_Taemin being so nice? Refreshing. _He mentally comments as he receives the plastic bag full of medicine and fishes out his credit card. It’s slightly worrisome that their authorities didn’t care to the extent of which a Head Escort distributing random bonuses was something not on their priority list, but that’s none of Yoongi’s business.

He hauls a taxi and clambers onto the seat, a sheen of sweat lining his forehead. The driver upstarts a political conversation about the incompetence of their president, and Yoongi swallows the desire to bark at the man to shut the fuck up, he’s riding a fever here. Instead, he pretends to fall asleep against the window, his head knocking rhythmically as the driver swerves to the right. The man mutters inaudibly under his breath, something about ‘youngsters nowadays’ and ‘filial piety’, all that crap Yoongi could really care less about.

Home is heavenly, as Yoongi stumbles into his shower and rinses the grime and sweat out of his hair and skin. It’s a few degrees too cold and he’s shivering to the toe when he steps out, but he manages to yank a shirt from the closet and a pair of shorts from his drawer. He pops a Tylenol into his mouth, gulping a cup of warm water, and then practically crashes down onto his couch.

He turns on the TV, and there’s a re-broadcast of _Infinite Challenges _on MBC. Lingering on the channel for a while, he chuckles at a cruel jibe by Park Myeongsoo and then switches over to TVN. There’s a variety show called _Into the Hottest Lives _airing, and it’s not the fancy lineup of MCs that catches his attention but the guest panel – _Kim Taehyung, model_.

Taehyung’s hair is now ocean blue, and he looks almost too pale and starved past the camera. His smile is brilliant, though, as if he isn’t the identical person that sorrowfully told Yoongi that Yoongi didn’t love him as much as he did, if at all. The MCs are interviewing another model next to Taehyung, and she giggles and claps her hands animatedly as they tease her about whatever she said. Yoongi can’t really listen, because he’s glued to Taehyung.

_Is he eating? _He bites down into his inner cheek, _he isn’t sick, is he? Fuck, I swear, if he doesn’t eat… _

** _“And now, onto Korea’s hottest male model, Kim Taehyung-ssi! It’s a pleasure to meet you as our first guest panel!”_ **

** **

Taehyung is polite and reserved, waving at the camera and answering one question after another. Yoongi can’t stop himself from being absorbed into the screen, into a voice that isn’t tickling his ears, into the eyes that aren’t burning into him, and into a touch that isn’t sending tingles down his spine.

** _“You’re known for your frequent transformation of hair colors. Blue is not a very popular shade, even amongst the top celebrities – is there a reason why you specifically selected blue this time?”_ **

** **

Taehyung in the monitor screen chortles a little. **_“I don’t always have a reason – sometimes it’s just a whimsical decision, like, ‘hey, I feel like purple today, let’s go with purple!’ But… I suppose I wanted to send a message to someone. That person’s hair was blue when I first met them.” _**

It’s him. Yoongi can infer that much – it’s _him_. _What message? _He has the scorching yearning to grab Taehyung by his collar and demand for an answer – _what message? _But then he knows what Taehyung will tell him, with this somber twinge in his sobered smile, that Yoongi will never love him as much as he does, because very simply – Yoongi doesn’t love him.

Fuck, if only he _knew_.

He wants to love – love so badly.

** _“Seems like you have a secret admirer, Taehyung-ssi! You could tell us a little about this person, maybe?”_ **

** **

Taehyung stiffens for a second – not even second, maybe a fleeting nanosecond. But Yoongi witnessed it. Taehyung on the screen softly responds,

** _“I can’t reach them.” _ **

** **

The MCs groan jovially, about how Taehyung must’ve been talking about some character, some 2D figure. But Yoongi’s breath clogs in his throat, as his vision blurs with a messy canvas of hazy colors.

He really wants this fever to pass.

***

_He was born into a family of five. _

_A graceful mother, a benevolent father, an adorable little sister, an aloof little brother, and him – an ideal family of five. _

_Their family’s complex wasn’t as impressive as his father’s friend’s, but they were satisfied and happy. He especially loved their blanket fort in one of the rooms – the masterpiece of he and his siblings. Eonjin, his little sister, would always crawl onto his lap and then drool all over his pants as she napped, and his little brother, Junggyu, would struggle to balance his flashlight and book in one hand. _

_Taehyung enjoyed those little things. _

_He loved his mother’s Friday story nights, where she’d take a break from her job and let them hoard her rocking chair as she ruffled Taehyung’s hair, reading them a book of their choice in her paced, elegant voice. _

_He loved his father’s Sunday dinners, where he’d flaunt his culinary skills and cook him special Daegu dishes. He couldn’t quite recall the exact taste anymore, sans the fact that it was very tasty. His father would proudly plant his fists onto his hips and boast, “Nobody beats your father’s cooking, kids.” Taehyung would often mimic his moves after frying an egg. _

_They were little things, but very precious to him – more precious than any other bigger thing could’ve been. _

_He hadn’t known that then, though. _

_Perhaps, that’s why it had to be that night. The day when Taehyung had been envious of his friend’s new videogame at daycare, and wreaked a havoc when he came home, screaming at his parents why he never got the new videogames, why he always had to get the used ones, and that his parents were mean and selfish – that his parents were always like this. His mother gave him a stern look, his father’s jaw tightened, and his siblings had tiptoed around him like the plague. It was only exacerbated when his parents left him out for the family dinner and drove downtown, just the four of them, leaving him alone at home, because he was petulant the whole day. _

_‘I hate you all,’ he screeched, ‘I hate you all to the end of the world.’ _

_All for a videogame. _

_He fell asleep on the carpet while waiting for them to come back in the car, however, soon overwhelmed by immense regret. It was just a videogame, after all – Taehyung had so much more, like cool blanket forts and story nights and his father’s delicious food. He had so much more than just a videogame – he had a family of five. _

_He never quite understood the next morning, when a woman dressed in black crouched down in front of him, caressing his cheek, trying to communicate that he was not in a family of five anymore – he was a family of one. _

_Just him. _

_Everything whizzed by too fast for his small brain to contain, with relatives going in and out of the picture and everyone dressed in black, black, black, and more black. His parents never returned, and neither did Eonjin nor Junggyu. Taehyung waited, waited, and waited. He waited, with the ‘I’m sorry’ readied in his chest, entire speech memorized by heart. Even when his father’s rich friend came to get him, offered him to come to live with them, to be a part of the Kims, he waited. Even when he became a new ‘Kim’ Taehyung, even when his new older brother poked his head into his room and invited him to his circle of friends, Taehyung waited. _

_It was one morning at breakfast that Taehyung just knew – his family of five was gone, forever. _

_He couldn’t cry, because that’d be a burden and worry to his new family members. So he didn’t. He gulped the orange juice and chewed glumly on the piece of bacon, his practiced apology still stuck in his throat. _

_‘I’m sorry’. _

_He lost his precious little things overnight, every single of them. He had never realized how precious they were until he had. But it was too late because all he had now was a photograph of his family and the blankets from the fort, some storybooks, and the half-used perfume of his mother that was waning in scent. _

_He grew to long for attention and belonging, only because he needed to actually recant his practiced apology to somebody. Would somebody be patient enough one day, to heed his repentance and sins? Would somebody whisper in his ear that he couldn’t have done anything better, that the unforeseen death was far from his reach? _

_Would somebody love him so much, that they’d forgive for that night? _

_He’d never know, would he?_

“Oh, Taehyung, you’re wrapping up now?”

“Ah, yeah, my photoshoot just finished. You’re done too, hyung?”

“Nah, I have to sprint back to the set once I finish drinking this bottle of water.” Park Hyungsik, Taehyung’s senior in the field, outstretches a bottle of water towards Taehyung, in which the latter thanks him for. “I caught a glimpse of the new show you were in today, by the way. Into the Hottest… well, I don’t know, that’s not important. Who’s the lucky person?” Hyungsik elbows him playfully with a coy smile. “You can’t reach ‘em? Is my little Taehyungie suffering from unrequited love?”

For a moment, Taehyung considers brushing the topic away, which would be facile. But then he slips the truth before he can snag his conscience back. “Something like that.”

Hyungsik halts, seemingly thrown aback. “You’re kidding, right? Who _wouldn’t_ fall for you?”

“Someone who loves cats very much and worships money piously.” Taehyung shrugs, pulling on his jacket. “He’s very cute, by the way.”

“Shit, Tae, are you crushing on a gold digger?”

“Diamond digger, actually.”

“I learn something new about you every day.”

“Well, I’m suspecting that I used to be an onion in my past life. Endless peelings and all.”

Hyungsik hums, as he chugs down his water with fervor. “I don’t believe it – that there’s anyone in this universe that wouldn’t fall for you, at least once. Are you sure he isn’t just a very meek guy?”

“He’s not meek, he’s…” He thins his lips narrowly, throwing a cap over his head. “He’s not very fond of himself.”

“Oh.” Hyungsik clucks his tongue; “You should tell him that you love him, then.”

“… Why?”

“Why not?” The senior model counters effortlessly, trashing his empty bottle into the bin. “Although ‘I love you’ isn’t the answer to everything or the panacea to all illnesses, it paves a solution at least. And a solution is a beginning, don’t you think?” Someone shouts for Hyungsik next door, and the model ‘hmph’s. “Good luck, Tae. You know I’m always here if you need moral support for anything.”

He sucks in a deep breath and smiles, “Yeah, hyung.”

Hyungsik punches him lightly on the forearm and dashes back to the set, where his photographer seems ticked off for his laxness. Taehyung lounges about for another minute or so until he departs for the lift and punches in the button for the first floor.

That’s when his phone vibrates in his jean pockets, as he jerks in shock. He scrambles for his phone, and frowns when the ID is marked as ‘unknown’ – he never got any calls from unknown people.

“Hello?”

_“Is… fuck, please tell me you’re a doctor.”_

Taehyung goes absolutely static.

Even if he sounds bed-ridden and snotty, even if he sounds raspier than ever, he’d always catch that voice from a crowd calling his name.

“I…” He chokes a little on his saliva, “Where are you?”

An address is related sluggishly, and Taehyung sprints down to the parking lot, where Jungkook is tapping his feet in the car to drive them home.

“I’ll be there.”

***

Yoongi cracked into life and was persuaded that he was going to die.

His fever had worsened after his nap, and there was a persistent ringing by his ear, with a colossal headache of the century thrumming in all possible directions in his skull. That Tylenol wasn’t authentic, was it? How could anyone deteriorate into death with a medicinal pill?

It doesn’t even make sense to him anymore.

He had apparently slept with the TV on because TVN is still running, just on another program. With an agitated growl, he turns it off and hurls the remote across the living room. _Fuck, _why was everything so _cold? _He has never felt too cold in his apartment, but it is cold as Antarctica and he can freeze over to his grave right now and nobody would notice.

Right.

_Doctor. _

_Taemin. _

_Number. _

He vaguely pieces the information together, as his hand searches for his phone in a languid motion. His pinky crumples against the surface of his phone and he whimpers because _fuck_ that kind of hurts a lot. Pissed, he taps the number with his slippery thumb, almost letting the device drop to his nose, and puts the phone on speaker.

_“Hello?”_

A deep, resonant rumble echoes within his room – it sounds like Taehyung’s ‘hello’.

“Is…” _this Taehyung, _he almost queries, but he’s not that delusional. “Fuck, please tell me you’re a doctor.” If it were Taehyung, he might break – in bliss, in petrification, he’d never know.

_“I… where are you?”_

The habitual address evades him, and he presses the ‘end call’ button before a hushed ‘I’ll…’ resounds through the speaker. He’s too tired, too cold, too hot, too sleepy, and everything all at once to even care. This doctor better be legitimate, because Taemin isn’t going to have his friend with him tomorrow if he isn’t.

He lies there for what feels like an eternity, until the doorbell rings. Yoongi coughs as he raises his body and wobbles up to his feet – _holy crap, _the world is spinning on its axis – and wills himself to the door. It’s merely six meters away, but it might as well be damned six kilometers away for a person dangerously feverish.

His fingers curl around the doorknob determinedly, as he twists with all his remaining strength. The door swings open with his flailing arm, and Yoongi gasps for air as a wave of bone-freezing cold hits him with the night winds.

“Sorry, but I’m fucking kind of sick so I can’t really treat you –“

Suddenly, a pair of arms are around him, warm, gentle, and solidly linked. Yoongi’s world is still spinning, his mind is as white and blank as his math tests in high school, but he’s sane enough to be aware that this is a fucking weird situation where this maybe-doctor-dude is hugging him –

_Ocean blue. _

The vivacious color intrudes on his blurry vision, and Yoongi stops breathing. There’s a familiar scent under his clogged nostrils, a scent of sunshine and warm mornings, in a warmth that feels like a place that Yoongi wants to be in. His hand subconsciously reaches upward, into the soft locks of hair that intertwines with his fingers as if they belong there. Yoongi can’t process what’s going on, because it doesn’t make any sense – not just in the feverish sense, but everything –

“I’m here, Suga-hyung.”

There’s a voice that rumbles by his ears. There are arms wrapped in an embrace around his body. There is searing hotness through the frigid iciness of this night.

Here is a love, which Yoongi desperately loves.


	9. Bed Situations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they all sleep in the same bed. 
> 
> Just sleep. 
> 
> No, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH RANDOM UPDATE!!
> 
> ... I'm just excited that we reached 1k+ reads and 69 (hah, good going guys) kudos. Also, lovely comments and words of support - I love you all, too! 
> 
> This chapter is a break from the angst as I sprinkle fluff, fluff, and more fluff (in case you couldn't tell from the chapter title, yeah)! But it all gets better before it gets worse - buckle up for more angst in chapter 10 (oh no). 
> 
> Anyway, enough of me; enjoy reading!

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Uh.”

“No, don’t _uh _me. Let’s try this again. You’re kidding right? You’re supposed to say ‘yes’, now.”

“No.”

“_Jesus, RM, _I heard you were a smart guy –“

“Don’t call me RM, I’m _Hyungjoon_ right now –“

“Well, Hyungjoon, I heard you were a smart guy –“

“Want me to tell you something?”

“_What_?”

“I gave Suga food poisoning once because I baked his birthday cake.” RM grins sheepishly, “The milk was expired.”

_This man. This disastrous man. _“Have I apologized to Suga yet? He really deserves an apology, because that is one _hellish _life he is living.”

“For the record, no, you haven’t – but I’m certain that he wouldn’t care.” RM pokes at the lump of white powder meant to be sugar, which is now salt. “So, what are we going to do? Redo this?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t want get sick from overconsumption of salt, over-salinization or whatever the fancy term is.” Seokjin glares grudgingly at the tteokbokki. _We only had the seasoning left, too. _“Actually, you stay out of this – get your very existence out of this holy kitchen. You’re legitimately shortening my lifespan right now.”

“Yessir,” RM apologetically shrugs, shuffling out of the kitchen ground. “You sure –“

“I’m sure.”

“I mean, but what if –“

“RM, don’t test me.”

“I got you, geez.” The escort disappears from the doorframe and Seokjin massages his temples. From their past six hours together, Kim Seokjin has learned quite a few notable facts about RM, the escort. One, he is the Poet Laureate of this century after Alfred Lord Tennyson, with something extremely romantic or dramatic to say. Two, he is awfully uncoordinated for a man that’s in the service industry. Three, his friend Suga must be a saint for putting up with his pandemonium, because Seokjin has cooked with him for thirty minutes and feels as if he’s going insane. And you have to know, Seokjin is usually a very reserved person.

Hoseok traipses into the kitchen with a rolled diaper in his left hand and hand sanitizer in the other. As he tosses the diaper into the bin, he peers at Seokjin and chortles, “What was that about?”

“That guy can’t cook for the love of God,” Seokjin groans as he uses a tablespoon to scrape at the remnants of salt on the rice cakes, not wanting to actually cook a whole new batch. “What is he in the service industry for? He’d be the last potential employee on my list.”

“Well, he has a very nice face, in my opinion.” Seokjin glowers at him pointedly. “What? He _does _have a pleasing appearance. He’s not out-of-everyone’s-league-ish like you and Taehyungie, you get what I mean? I’m convinced that’s a bullet-point on their checklist when they hire escorts – ‘not _too_ handsome but not ugly’, ‘cause escorts aren’t supposed to stand out.” Seokjin makes a non-committal noise as he boils the pot of tteokbokki once more. “And has he told you about his story about the girl with the terminal illness?”

“… No?”

“It’s fucking heartbreaking, that story. You have to hear it sometime – speaking of which, Miyeon-ssi was on a scavenger hunt for the peach cans. Do you know where those might be?”

“You should check the fridge on the second floor.”

“Gotcha. Oh, and Jin-hyung?”

“Hm?”

“Apparently, there’s one spare room on the fifth floor,” Hoseok relates monotonously, “I’m sharing mine with two of the older boys, so you have to share that one with RM.”

“Oh, cool,” Seokjin doesn’t really process the message as he seasons the dish.

“There’s one bed.”

“Yeah, cool.” He places his hands on his hips with a glowing moment of pride at his mastery of the tteokbokki, but then Hoseok’s announcement finally decodes fully in his brain. “Wait, what?”

“Ah, hyung, Sanghyun shattered a plate ten minutes ago so bring extra, yeah?” Hoseok trots out of the vicinity with his key to the second floor’s storage room, leaving Seokjin with his jaw agape.

_I have to what? There’s only one- what? Share a room with- huh? _He frantically lowers the heat for the pot and allows the rice cakes to simmer in the warmth for a while as he lets that information run by him once more. “I’m sharing a bed with RM.” God, it sounds approximately three-point-four times worse as he utters it aloud. “With _RM, _holy mother of –“

“What are we doing?” In cue, RM steps foot into the kitchen with a blank expression, his ash-blond hair windswept to the right and tousled from labor during the afternoon. Seokjin can’t help but note that he still maintains an incredibly natural-hot complexion amidst his sweat and grime, and _lord, _his shirt is wet and white. “Seokjin-ssi?”

“Did you know that we have to share a bed tonight?”

The escort blinks once, twice, and then sucks in a deep breath, “You’ll have to repeat that, slowly.”

“We’re rooming together tonight,” Seokjin witnesses RM’s placid face distorting into one of terror, “And there’s only one bed.” He pauses, “I’m just as melancholy as you are right now, stop sulking.”

“And there’s no alternative? Perhaps we can carry an extra bed, I could sleep on the couch, or,” RM bites down on his lip pensively, “There must be another option.”

“Unfortunately, no.” He allows for some seconds to pass, because he needs time to accept this as well. “This is a pipsqueak facility and my family doesn’t fund them enough for purchasing new furniture. I suppose I could assist them, but then the authorities get all prissy about how I spend the finances, all that. And our room is on the fifth floor, so even if we had an extra bed, it’d be an inconvenience. One of the staff is adamant about sleeping on the couch. And before you pry about why I don’t switch with Hoseok, it’s because I suck at dealing with children and I can’t possibly sleep with two of them under my discretion.”

“I could switch with Hoseok.”

“Those kids are stirred awake easily – do you snore?” RM twitches guiltily at that jab. “So you do. You won’t do, then.”

“Crap.”

“Yeah, so basically,” Seokjin removes a stack of plates and cutlery from the cupboards, “I’m a knock-out sleeper, so I have no issues with snoring, but you have to keep your boundaries. I have no idea how large that bed is, but my guess is that it’s not very large. And I’m showering first.”

RM concedes with a terse nod. “No qualms with that. I take short showers.”

“Do you kungfu in your sleep?”

“I’ve never even learned kungfu.”

“Just asking,” Seokjin’s nonchalant façade wobbles as he whizzes through his concerns because _when was the last time he’s shared a bed with someone, _he doesn’t even like sleeping with Leejung and he’s supposedly marrying that dude. And now he’s going to be on the same mattress, under the same futon as _RM, _the escort that was rightfully infuriated at him for the past few weeks or so? That’s a recipe for Problems right there.

RM observes his movements briefly, cautiously serving the plates with tteokbokki. “I can sleep on the floor if you’re uncomfortable. I’ve had some clients that couldn’t bear to sleep with me when that was a part of the assignment.”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Seokjin murmurs absentmindedly, desperately hoping that his breakdown isn’t too obvious. Sleeping with escorts, great. He used to do that, platonically, romantically, sexually, all that jazz. In fact, he made a _lot _of life choices he probably shouldn’t have in a bed with an escort.

_Just keep your boundaries. Keep your boundaries, and nothing can happen. Literally nothing can go wrong unless I make it go wrong. _

“Well, just tell me when you change your mind. And do you want me to set these plates on the table?”

“Okay, and yes.”

“A’ight.”

Once RM is out of earshot, Seokjin screams silently into the pink apron he’s wearing around his waist.

_I’m Not Okay._

***

Yoongi doesn’t doubt that he’s dreaming for the initial five seconds of the embrace.

But then he entwines his fingers into Taehyung’s silky locks, his nose buried in the fuzzy fabric of his cotton jacket, his chest compressed against Taehyung’s cool shirt – and his knees buckle under him almost immediately upon the realization, _because what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck –_

Taehyung merely supports him with his arms, one of his legs hooked under Yoongi’s lower thigh so that he doesn’t topple over in exhaustion. His breath tickles Yoongi’s ringing ears and it’s difficult to breathe with his fever and runny nose – but he can’t push the boy away, not just because he’s near-bedridden with his fever but also due to the fact that Taehyung’s shaking uncontrollably as he hugs him.

“You’re too warm,” The model croaks after a long moment of silence at the doorway, “Are you a furnace now?”

“I –“ Yoongi tries, but coughs and gags as bile rise to his throat, a massive headache crashing over him. There’s Taehyung’s hand rubbing his back comfortingly, and that continues until he calms down. “How are you here?”

Taehyung frowns bemusedly for a second but he answers, “You called me, hyung. I think you mistook me as a doctor or something.”

Yoongi scowls, because _what now?_ His brain is malfunctioning and he feels like he’s been drilled three hundred feet underground and back and starved, but somehow, the puzzle pieces align and match. Taemin, the suspicious number, the voice over the connection that sounded eerily like Taehyung, and –

“Fuck you _Taemin_,” He rumbles scornfully, the migraine in his head somehow worsening. “God, shit, I don’t even- I don’t even know where to begin, if the authorities hear about this then my whole damned career- _fuck, _I –“ Panic courses through his vessels rapidly, but Taehyung encloses his fingers around his scorching wrist gently – it sends a jolt up Yoongi’s skin.

“Let’s go in, hyung.” He suggests with an understanding look plastered over his handsome face – god, it’s been so long that he almost forgot how utterly ethereal Taehyung’s face was – “You’re sick and you need to rest. You’re beyond ‘warm’ right now, and I’m –“ Pursing his lips together, Taehyung clenches his eyes shut and sighs. “I was worried, I’m still _really_ worried, so can you go lie down on your bed, your couch, wherever’s your favorite place? Please?”

And Yoongi shouldn’t accept this situation, because Taehyung is a client and forever _will be _a client; he’s not supposed to barge into his apartment like this and get involved with Yoongi _personally. _Ironically enough, he can’t brew up an appropriate rejoinder or excuse to kick Taehyung out of his house, and allows himself to be dragged to the couch by the model’s strong grip.

“I’ll get some wet towels for you – have you eaten?” He shakes his head. “It’s- Christ, it’s eight o’clock hyung, you’re burning up and you haven’t- _god, _just give me a second, I’ll be right back.” And with that Taehyung vanishes into the kitchen. Yoongi sinks into the cushions, his arm over his sweaty forehead, as he processes reality once more. _Kim Taehyung is in his apartment. Kim Taehyung is in his kitchen. The man he really likes, a man he ought to treat as any other client, hugged him like there was no tomorrow. _

There’s the echo of footsteps from the side, and Yoongi removes his arm and peeks to his left. Taehyung has somehow excavated the foldable mini-table (when the heck did he even buy that) and is busy arranging the bowl of porridge and spoon on its surface. It actually smells appetizing for once, and Yoongi stares stupidly at the food when Taehyung balances the table on the cushions so that it doesn’t squash Yoongi’s lap.

“You should really finish that, hyung. Kookie caught the flu once and was malnourished and he never recovered for a month or so – it was really scary.” The male flutters his eyelashes pleadingly, with a cute puppy pout. Yoongi huffs and brings the spoon to his mouth, his taste buds numb from the heat.

“Huh,” He blinks at the bowl, “Did you make this?”

“No, of course not! I bought it on the way here, despite the really disapproving glare I got from Jungkook. I wouldn’t want to kill you with my dreadful cooking.”

“Well, isn’t that reassuring.” Yoongi eats another spoonful, “It’s nice. Thank you.”

Taehyung smiles his rectangular smile, and Yoongi swears to the heavens that his fever was cured for those legitimate five seconds. “It’s my pleasure, hyung.”

And they just sit there until Yoongi’s done, and then Taehyung shuffles to his plastic bag of medicine and examines the covers and its effects. He squints at some labels and the escort can hear him whisper aloud, ‘_how do you even pronounce that, what?’ _and_ ‘for… that’s a really a fancy term for ‘runny nose’,’_ and more. It causes the edges of his lips to quirk, just slightly. He retrieves a glass of lukewarm water from the kitchen and hands the pills to Yoongi, gazing at him intently until he’s gulped them down.

After the pills skid down his throat, Yoongi finally speaks, “I’m really sorry.”

“Sorry?” Taehyung plops on the couch, carefully placing Yoongi’s feet over his lap and setting his hand over his ankles. The tactile nature of the act has him shivering, although temporarily. “Why are you sorry?”

“That you have to deal with all this unnecessary rubbish because of my boss – he told me it was a doctor’s number and I didn’t even think twice, I just,” He heaves a stuttered exhale, “I probably inconvenienced you, ‘cause I heard that in the celeb world it’s absolutely taboo to crash into a stranger’s apartment since that can lead and snowball to all kinds of nasty rumors and _fuck _that’s gonna be such a pain in the ass for you, I’m so sorry Taehyung –“

“Suga.” There’s a squeeze around his ankle, as Taehyung stares at him softly. “Trust me, my friends have my back. You don’t have to be worried about such trivial things –“

“They’re not _trivial._” He snaps right away, and it’s horrible because he always gets emotional during his ill phases, most likely as he never gets such an opportunity on assignments: to express himself, to be who he is, or to feel at all. His emotional output had been Taehyung until he severed all ties with him, and now he is imploding with his pent up feelings. “I know you’re fucking stressed out because how I treated you and I don’t want to shove more shit on your plate, you don’t deserve that.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s _not_ –“

“Just listen to me for a second, okay?” Taehyung hushes him and he does quiet down, his heart beating fast and his ribs aching. He always spills too much when he’s sick – the fever, the rollercoaster of feelings, and Taehyung – awful combination, truly. “I’m not stressed out because you don’t love me back or anything. It hurts a little, yeah – but it doesn’t _stress_ me out. You’ll never be able to ‘stress me out’, Suga-hyung, I’m too happy with you. It’s more heartbreaking to see you sick and pale like this than a rejection.”

And honestly, that fucks him up, because- _because_. When has anyone told him that they’re _too happy _with him? What astounding deeds has he done in his past life to have Kim Taehyung fall for him? He’s too _good_, too beautiful, too lovable and everything else holy and exquisite for Yoongi.

“I’m so sorry,” Is all he can say repeatedly, swallowing the need to cry. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Taehyung folds the table and drops it to the floor. “I think I’ve heard more apologies from you alone than all apologies together this entire year, hyung. You might be in Guinness Records.”

“I’m _serious_, Taehyung.”

“And so am I.” The model slips down to his carpet and clasps Yoongi’s warm hand. “There’s really nothing you should feel sorry about; I would’ve left long ago if I thought this would endanger my career or something – and to add on, Jungkookie wouldn’t even let me stay here if he judged that to be the case. You’re not burdening me, hyung, not at all.”

Min Yoongi will never comprehend why this surreal being ever loves him – how someone with such a kind heart as Taehyung came to love someone so muddled, saddled with baggage and frigidity as him. Because Yoongi doesn’t deserve –

“You deserve so much, Suga.” Taehyung mumbles under his breath, “I wish you’d understand that someday.”

_Fuck, _his eyes feel hot, and there’s a bulge in his windpipe that makes breathing impossible. He can’t respond to that, because what Taehyung is telling him is something he always wanted to believe, a reassurance he always yearned for – he’d just never thought it could actually happen.

_You’re always too good for me. To me. _

“You should go to sleep – where’s your toothbrush? I’ll fetch it for you.”

He waves in the general direction, “The bathroom – inside my bedroom.”

“Alright, I’ll be back.”

And true to his word, Taehyung walks back with a toothbrush in his hand and he puts it into the escort’s mouth with an endearing grin. “Does anyone ever tell you that you’re adorable when you’re sick?”

He almost chokes on the toothpaste and bubbles, “_Mmf- _no, what the hell –“

“Well, you are, with your button nose pink and your cheeks swollen. Not that I want you to always be sick, of course, but,” Taehyung giggles blithely, and Yoongi can sense it – he’s doing it to lighten the weight on Yoongi’s shoulders, to relieve him of his guilt. “You’re the cutest.”

“_’M _not.” He retorts in an incoherent muffle, standing up to head to the bathroom – Taehyung trails behind him, just to make sure that he doesn’t trip or stumble on his short journey. When he’s washed his mouth and face, a fluffy towel is shoved into his vision, “Wha-_mmph.”_

“Don’t move, I don’t want to hurt you.” Taehyung’s deep voice resounds in a very proximate distance, past the thin veil of the towel. His tender touches rub against his sensitive skin; Taehyung’s thumb caressing the curves of his ears, his cheekbones, and squeezing his nose – and Yoongi has to bite down an embarrassing moan when Taehyung’s pinky grazes a particular area on his neck.

“I can fucking cleanse my own face, Taehyung-ah.” Yoongi shoots, a blush spreading over his pink skin, as Taehyung chuckles.

“I know, but I couldn’t help it – your cheeks look so squishy, they’re so irresistible.”

“_They’re_\- I can’t even.” Yoongi yanks the towel out of the boy’s grasp and rubs at his face madly, and then tosses it into the laundry basket in the corner of his room. He marches to his bed and collapses over the futon, desperately hoping that he isn’t a fucking ridiculous shade of hot pink or something, because he hasn’t been treated this way, _ever._

Taehyung mimics his moves and stares directly into Yoongi’s eyes, his round head tilted sideways atop his arm. He beams at Yoongi and asks, “Are you feeling better?”

And Jesus Christ, he wants to scream at His Higher because it should be illegal to create a being so phenomenally _gorgeous, _his sea blue locks scattered like flower petals over Yoongi’s sheets and his pearly skin glowing under his cheap lights, every curve so precious and his smile enrapturing – everything about him is something to be treasured, and he’s now on Yoongi’s bed, beaming at him with the power of a million suns and flowers. Taehyung’s smile would cure cancer and create a whole new Mother Earth altogether.

“No,” Yoongi grunts, “You’re giving me a cardiac arrest.”

Taehyung laughs melodiously, “Why, because I’m so out-worldly attractive?”

_You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen._

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” Taehyung’s mouth parts, his bright expression crumbling in shock, and, “Fuck, did I say that aloud?” Pause. “Shit.”

The model, to his surprise, just laughs even harder on the mattress and lifts his hand to stroke Yoongi’s jawline. “I think you’re beautiful too, hyung.” And the ‘_don’t lie, lying is a grave sin Taehyung’ _drowns because he doesn’t think he can’t convince the boy otherwise, with the sincere, final glint he has in his fixed expression.

“I, uh,” Flustered to the core, Yoongi averts his attention to his bed. “I think I’ll sleep now.”

“Oh, yeah, good plan.” Taehyung agrees earnestly, rising from the bed and causing the mattress to elevate just a little. “I’ll turn the lights off for you and take my leave. Is there anything else you need?”

And call him a child, but Yoongi’s heart jerks with a ‘pang’ when he heeds that – _leaving. _He doesn’t want it – he doesn’t want to be here, saturated in his own sweat and his clothes growing icky damp and cold, left alone in his needlessly spacious bed or tossing and turning amidst his nightmares. But of course, Taehyung had to leave. He’s Korea’s top model, a celebrity in his prime, and some escort that unfortunately caught a cold in inopportune times shouldn’t hold him back.

“Suga?” Taehyung inquires once more with a confuddled twist of his mouth. “Do you want something before I go home?”

“Can you,” _get me a glass of water, _“Can you stay?”

And the air freezes over.

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck –_

“Forget that I said that, it just came out, I don’t even know what I’m –“

“Do you have clothes that I can change into?” Taehyung questions so serenely, that for a moment Yoongi’s pulse rate declines to a stable rhythm. Then he remembers what he said and freaks out internally again.

“Taehyung, I’m sure you have a packed schedule tomorrow, it was slip of the tongue and you don’t have to –“ Suddenly, Taehyung fishes out his phone from his pockets and dials a number, casually taps his foot, and when the person picks up he goes,

“Yeah, Kookie? I’m really sorry, but can you cancel all my morning appointments tomorrow? Ah- yeah, no… no, that’s not as- I’ll send a bouquet, is that alright? Yeah… yeah, okay. Mm… nah, I don’t really care, that’s not as important. Cool. Thanks, you’re literally the best, Jungkookie. Yeah, goodnight!” A satisfied smile forms, and Taehyung shrugs coolly, “Not busy anymore.”

Yoongi gapes as he gradually props himself into a sitting position. “Are you- are you fucking _insane? _Taehyung, you’re dropping millions there, we’re talking _millions _and I don’t want to be your reason for that.”

“Do you remember the night I told you that I don’t criticize people for chasing different goals in life?” Taehyung asks, and Yoongi nods curtly. “You can hunt for the millions, Suga. I’m fine with chasing you.”

“You’re…” Yoongi swells inwardly, at loss for words. On one hand, immense incredulity and bewilderment overwhelms him, with a tinge of guilt that he may be the reason why Taehyung will not be able to afford his new Gucci shirt, or something asinine like that. But one the other hand, he’s unbelievably stunned and… stupefied of Taehyung’s bold decision. “You’re impossible.”

The blue head chortles, “I get that a lot,” and swings open Yoongi’s wardrobe and rummages for clothes that would fit him. After around six minutes of cautiously maintaining the arrangement of garments and searching, he finds a pair of navy shorts and a white, plain T-shirt that he concludes to be comfy enough to sleep in. “Extra toothbrush?” Somewhat dazed, Yoongi points at the drawers, and Taehyung rips a toothbrush out from its brand new plastic packaging.

Another four minutes later, Taehyung has turned off all the lights of the house except his room’s, and has brought in a tray of warm water and medicine, just in case. He then crawls into the sheets, and that’s when Yoongi is pulled out of his trance.

“… Does anyone ever tell you that you’re a fucking expert at taking care of others?”

“Ah, well.” Taehyung sniffs, “I get it from Jin-hyung, I guess. He obsesses over all our health and honestly it’s really touching of him, but sometimes he’s gotta take care of himself too, you know? And I like to do that for him.” Taehyung’s toes are touching his calves. “Should I turn off the lights?”

Yoongi yawns, “Yeah, go ahead.”

Taehyung, however, hesitates. “Can we leave the night lamp on?” Yoongi gives him a puzzled look, and the other sheepishly confesses, “I can’t see your face if it’s pitch black, y’know?”

And albeit the mental shame and mild chagrin that courses through his veins, the incredible amount of warmth – definitely not from his sickness – overwhelms him, and a chuckle bubbles from his stuffed lungs. “You’re such a kid, my god.”

“But,” With a dramatic downturn of his plump lips, Taehyung whimpers, “What if I miss you?”

“I’m literally right here, Taehyung-ah.” Yoongi grumbles, exasperated – but he’s weak, the fever’s making him emotional and mushy, so, “But alright, keep the lamp on.”

Taehyung hums and switches the lights off, and only the soothing glow of the orange lamp illuminates the room, and shuffles towards Yoongi afterward. And Yoongi, while aware to his bone marrows that he’s going to regret everything that happened today in the morning, nuzzles against Taehyung’s chest, wrapping an arm around the model’s narrow waist.

“Suga?”

He shifts at the hushed tone of Taehyung’s gravelly voice.

“I won’t save your number if that’s, if that’s going to be an issue for you. I’ll delete it when I wake up in the morning.” He mumbles hearteningly, and while Yoongi appreciates the gesture as an escort, he isn’t sure if he’s too fond of the idea as… as Min Yoongi. Nonetheless, he nods. “I’ll delete it, but can you do me a favor?”

Perked, he peers up at Taehyung, his vision blurry and hazy. All he can really see is blue and peach, maybe the general pattern of Taehyung’s features. “Please don’t delete _my_ number.”

“… Why not?”

“So you can come to me when you need someone,” Taehyung replies longingly, so longingly that it aches in his nerves, “So you don’t have to be alone. I don’t think I can stand you being alone. Or me not being the one to help you. Not sure which is a more fatal blow.”

It’s a miracle, Yoongi thinks – a miracle that he isn’t sobbing yet because Taehyung is an angel incarnate.

“Please, hyung?”

Burying his head back into Taehyung’s chest, Yoongi lets out a muffled hum in affirmation, and contented, Taehyung snuggles into the nook of the escort’s neck and soon falls asleep, his body rising and falling and his breathing evened out. Yoongi clings to Taehyung’s shirt, his nails clawing at the fabric, and inhales the sweet scent of the boy.

_I don’t think I can stand being alone again either. _

***

The gravity of the situation doesn’t hit Namjoon until he spots the two lonesome white pillows and one pink blanket folded neatly on the queen-sized bed.

The room is quite cozy, actually. The floors and ceiling are all made of wood, and the wallpaper is a refreshing sky blue. There are classic wooden drawers opposite to the bed, and a purple oval carpet in the middle of the room. A square window fills more than half of the wall by the right of the bed, but there are no curtains, which seems like it’d be pure torture in the morning. Namjoon isn’t a big fan of sunlight, or waking up early at all, for that matter.

Hoseok pants as he tumbles into the room, from his arduous labor of hoisting Namjoon and Seokjin’s suitcase up the staircase. “The _heck, _do you have five thousand encyclopedias and a microwave in your suitcase? Jin is borderline addicted to his hair products and crap but what reason do _you _have for your thirty-kilogram baggage?”

“I just thought I could donate some of my older children’s books.” Namjoon answers easily, taking the bags from Hoseok and unzipping his. There are at least twenty picture books and around five thicker novels that are labeled ‘for young adults’ on the hardcover. “I was an avid reader as a child.”

“_Janghwa Hongryeon? _What a classic.” Hoseok snickers and skims the books as well. “Thanks, though. I knew you were a nice guy, but you weren’t obligated to bring all this.”

“It’s fine, really. Better than them rotting away at home.” Namjoon waves his hand dismissively, “I was supposed to mail them to my nephew when I graduated college, but I was disowned before I could, so.”

“Oh.” The secretary stiffens, his everlasting smile dissipating into thin air. “I’m sorry, RM.”

He snorts at Hoseok’s mood change. “It’s ancient news, don’t fuss. I never really got along with them and my sister always had a complex when it came to my grades. We were a dysfunctional family to begin with, so I don’t think disowning me really altered our household one-eighty.”

“I mean,” Fondling with the pages of _Cinderella, _Hoseok murmurs, “I feel a little… agh, how do I put this without being awkward. I already told you I had a misconception about escorts, like, prejudiced and everything?”

“That’s nothing new, really. I would be astonished if you weren’t, to be honest.”

“I know, but I still can’t help but realize again how idiotic that was of me? Like, the more I interact with you, the more human you seem – you’re just you, you know? Just like how I meet idols and actors and look right through their masks, escorts are just the same, just all human. And you’re… you’re a great person, you know that right? You’re a great person, RM. I have no idea what your real name is even now, but you’re a great person.”

“Uh,” Namjoon coughs into his sleeve, “That’s cheesy as hell, dude.”

“Wow, we were having a _moment._”

“No, I don’t recall that we were, exactly, but. Thanks, Hoseok. I’m thankful.”

Hoseok beams proudly back at him, and stretches his limbs as he rises to his feet again. “I should go downstairs; the kids here adore me. We started coming here because it’s where we found Jungkook, but at this point I just tag along because I love playing hide-and-seek with the children.”

Namjoon nervously states, “Kids freak me out.” Hoseok’s jaw drops comically and flabbergasted, the man shrieks in extremely Korean-accented English. “I’m prone to destruction, so I’m perfectly justified in my position, mind you. What if I fucking break their leg or something by accidentally stepping on them?”

The brunette chortles obnoxiously at the explanation and shakes his head as he exits the room. “You and Jin-hyung would get along so well. Have fun sharing a bed together tonight, by the way!”

“Have _fun_?” Namjoon raises a skeptical brow; “I’d be lucky if he doesn’t strangle me in the middle of the night.”

“Huh? What makes you believe that he despises you enough to do that?”

“Well, for starters, he acts like a damned robot around me. You should see how awkward he is; we fought, I get it, but I thought we sorted it out?”

Hoseok passes him an ‘are-you-for-real’, unimpressed face, and Namjoon feels attacked. “You really need to look at yourself in the mirror sometimes, RM. See what you do to people.”

_Okay, what. _“Is that supposed to be jab at the disproportionality of my face that contributes to my unattractiveness or –“

“Remind me to purchase a mirror for you sometime. A _real_ one.” Grating, Hoseok marches down the stairs and disappears from the corridor entirely. Namjoon is left utterly confounded for the first time after that interview of ‘banana or zucchini’ and his university introduction to calculus course. But then again, Yoongi has always berated him for being the densest person on the planet, denser than diamonds and rocks altogether.

He concludes that it’s not all that crucial to process Hoseok’s comments, and unpacks his belongings in the room instead. Seokjin wanted to shower first, so he puts his towel and toiletry stuff to the side, along with the half-used hairspray he carries around for emergencies during an assignment. He’s learned valuable lessons from numerous missions over the years, and one of them was, ‘always be prepared to go to an event that requires formal wear and hot hair’. He lounges about after he’s changed out of his grimy, smelly clothes from the afternoon, until Seokjin opens the door languidly.

“Oh, you’re already in here.” The man mumbles, acknowledging his presence somewhat bitterly. “I’ll go ahead and jump into the shower.”

“Feel free.”

Seokjin unlocks his suitcase and lazily grabs a shirt and pants, along with a shiny purple bag that is adorned with pink sparkles that reads, ‘DON’T TOUCH, JIN’S PRIVACY’. It’s somewhat immature and cute simultaneously, but Namjoon doesn’t react externally. Seokjin doesn’t seem to take notice of this as he slams the door the bathroom shut.

And true to his word, Seokjin spends eons on a shower. Namjoon can’t comprehend as he’s the five-minute type of guy – what else did anyone have to do in there other than shampoo, soap, and rinse, with the occasional conditioner? A load more for Seokjin, evidently, because he is nearing the thirty-minute mark.

Around another seven minutes later, Seokjin finally withdraws from the shower stall and out of the bathroom, a towel hanging around his neck and his hair wet. He looks absolutely _stunning, _and Namjoon can’t stop himself from staring at the lean, well-balanced body and wide shoulders of Seokjin, his curves showing through the slightly translucent shirt. He always deemed Seokjin to be good-looking, but this is, well.

_Another level. _

“I might’ve used up all the hot water,” Apologizes Seokjin, as he rubs his hair against his towel. “Wasn’t intentional or anything, I swear.”

“That’s fine, I like cold showers.” Not really, but Seokjin’s disheveled appearance and overall outlook are very distracting right now for him to care. He lingers on Seokjin’s smooth thighs for three more seconds before he reaches for his clothes and hurries into the shower stall.

The water isn’t actually that cold, just a little colder than he would usually enjoy his water temperature. He follows his normal procedure and accomplishes a new record of four minutes, rivulets of chilled water cascading down his abdomen.

It’s then that the stifled mumbles of Seokjin are heard from the room, from the general area of the bed. Namjoon ceases all movement for a brief second, just to catch what the former is saying.

“… You know that’s not what it is, Leejungie.”

_Leejungie – _sounds familiar.

“No, no. He’s just… _no_, can you just _listen_ for once?”

Seokjin is irked, that’s for sure. Namjoon slips into his underwear and quietly pulls on his shirt.

“He’s just a volunteer, I don’t get why this is such a colossal problem for you.” _Oh. _So he is conversing about Namjoon too, that’s just awesome. “Hoseokie hand-picks the volunteers, he’s certified and approved, yes, what’s your issue?” _That said volunteer is an escort, maybe, I don’t know. _“We don’t even sleep on the same bed, Leejung. I’m failing to understand why sharing a bed with this dude is suddenly going to thrust our marriage into shambles.”

_Huh. _

Namjoon’s foot freezes mid-air as he wriggles into his shorts. _Marriage?_

_Kim Seokjin was getting married?_

“I’m not trying to argue with you, Leejung. I’m just asserting a point that there is nothing that you need to be so worried about – I barely know the guy.” Silence. “Just- I’ll talk to you at home. Yeah. Night.”

An agonized sigh resonates after the call terminates, and Namjoon feels like he can finally breathe again. It passes him that he probably shouldn’t have eavesdropped on that conversation, just because of how awfully private and conflicted that sounded, and also from Seokjin’s distress that practically emanated from the phone call. He reluctantly tiptoes out of the bathroom, fully dressed, and meets with a Seokjin that looks beyond aggravated.

Namjoon decides that it’s not the best time for them to talk, but Seokjin breaks the ice between them.

“My fiancé is convinced that I’m going to have sex with you on this bed tonight.”

Namjoon almost chokes on his tongue.

The other male simply continues, “I don’t get why he’s so pissy about it now. It’s not like he ever cared.”

“Er,” The escort nibbles on his bottom lip, “Is it okay for you to, I don’t know, disclose all this information?”

“You can provide a scoop for the reporters and paparazzi, honestly. It’d be wonderful PR for my brother, too – killing two birds with one stone. Actually three, if that manages to dissolve the wedding.” Seokjin puffs, “And don’t act innocent, I know walls here aren’t sound-proof. Don’t remind me of the time when Hoseok jacked off to lesbian porn in the bathroom at 3 AM and thought he was discreet about it.”

Namjoon scrunches his nose. “I could’ve lived without having that image implanted in my brain.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to be the only person to know.” Sliding down against the bedpost, Seokjin lies on the bed. Then more subdued, he queries, “… What’s your opinion on arranged marriage?”

“Sweet cheese, that’s not outlawed yet?” Namjoon spits distastefully, and Seokjin snorts, humored. “Your parents are forcing you to marry a guy you’re not even in love with?”

“Please,” The chaebol turns to his side, away from Namjoon, “I was grateful that they at least respected my sexuality and selected a dude, trust me.”

The escort winces, “That _bad_?”

“_That_ bad.”

“Oh.”

Seokjin sucks in a shallow breath, “I thought I could love him.” And at that precise second, as he drones those words, his wide shoulders seem to shrink and hunch. The whole scene plucks at Namjoon’s heartstrings from the vulnerability Seokjin is displaying to him. “I genuinely thought I could love him one day.”

“You don’t have to, though.” Namjoon returns soberly, dragging out the stool in the corner and avoiding the bed to maintain a secure distance from his roommate. “You shouldn’t deceive your emotions.”

“Well, it’d be more beneficial if I _did _love them than not, don’t you agree?” Seokjin questions rhetorically, and soon sits upright again, his mop of dark hair tousled and curtaining his forehead. Namjoon would say that it’s cute if the situation were not so grim for flirting. “I have to live with him till I am wrinkled and in a wheelchair. I’d like it if my company were enjoyable.”

Namjoon pictures Seokjin with white and gray hair, perched on the hospital bed in a room of beige. _He’d still be an attractive grandpa, but I mean. _“Does your fiancé have a jealousy issue?”

“What?” Seokjin frowns at him, “Why’d you say that?”

“Well, you did remark that the walls aren’t sound-proof.”

“What? Oh. Oh, _that_.” The man sneers acrimoniously, “No, of course not. He’s just paranoid about the media, the press, all that. He doesn’t want an ominous video uploaded on the Internet of me sleeping around with another guy.”

“This is an _orphanage, _though.”

“People have sex in very inconspicuous and queer locations, RM.” Seokjin blandly adds, “Like kindergarten bathrooms.”

Namjoon makes a face. “That’s not from your experience is it?” Seokjin’s expression distorts, “_Wha- _you’re such a sinful person, what the fuck is wrong with you, oh my god –“

“My ex-boyfriend pretended to be a guardian for some kid’s kindergarten orientation,” Explicates Seokjin, “You know, for an assignment.”

_Assignment. _The term submerges into his brain for further processing, and there’s the fleeting image of Namjoon attending that kid’s parent field day for his own job too, and the horribly awkward evening where he bumped into one of the mothers from that day in the supermarket as she gasped, _“You’re Somi’s father, aren’t you? Why aren’t you picking her up anymore?” _And he was the fuckup of a father that forgot his kid’s name for seven seconds, like, “_Sorry, who?”_

“You…” Namjoon can feel his jaw click, “You used to date an _escort_?”

And he must’ve been wearing a horrendous look because Seokjin bursts out laughing. “I thought it’d be pretty obvious from my transparent repugnance towards them. But yes, to answer your question, my ex-boyfriend was an escort. Also the one before that, but he wasn’t serious.”

“Huh,” _Okay, terrific. _He’d always presumed that Seokjin was one of those people, those people that read those articles and headlines about escorts seducing chaebols with pot and weed, escorts mediating human trafficking, escorts are the bane of this world’s existence, escorts this, escorts that. Namjoon always longs to shout at those people that such escorts are a rarity – all of them prefer to lay low and are placated as they earn their small wads of cash. “Would mind if I ask which company?”

“Yours.”

“Ah,” _That clears the mist a lot. _“That’s how you know Suga.”

“I suppose so. My ex is in the S ward – or was, I’ve lost all contact with him. Suga was Gloss then; I wasn’t aware that he’s changed his alias.”

“He does that frequently. It’s uncommon, but well. He’s been Suga for the past two years or so.” He stills, observing Seokjin’s demeanor, “But the S ward, huh. That must’ve been… challenging.”

“I beseeched him, I tell you – to transfer to the B or T ward. But y’know how the S ward pays strongly, and he wasn’t willing to turn that life down.” Shrugging, Seokjin explains the story as if it’s just some folktale, drama-free and casual. It’s anything but. “Couldn’t blame him, now that I think about it. He always had this trauma for his dwindling bank account and the sum in it, with his expensive coping mechanisms that involved Michelin star restaurants and champagne.”

It’s all a very familiar routine, for some reason – had Yoongi ever told him something around the same lines? Yoongi wasn’t ever quite friendly with those of the S ward as he is with the T ward escorts, as well as Taemin. That young Head Escort had always been fond of Yoongi, and Namjoon never understood why.

“Well,” The escort offers, “I’m sorry you had to go through that. Thank you for… confiding in me, I guess.”

And then Seokjin stares at him keenly, which is too crushing because crap, Namjoon isn’t over the fact that Kim Seokjin has a face that can elevate two thousand dicks. “RM, there’s something about your face, did you know?”

“… No?” He blinks in confusion, “Hoseok said something like that earlier, though.”

“There’s, well,” Opening his mouth once, then twice, Seokjin’s lips forms shapes but doesn’t articulate any words. “Never mind, actually. It’s not that important.” He glides out of the bed and trudges quickly to the bathroom to wet his toothbrush, preparing to sleep. Namjoon falls into a trance and scowls out of it,

“Hey, what? What was _that? _Are you implying that the subject matter of my face isn’t crucial?”

“It’s really not, you baboon.”

“Baboon –“ Namjoon acts affronted, but he has to grit down a shit-eating chuckle when he witnesses Seokjin’s ears redden madly. He shoves his hands into his pockets like a smug teenager and marches over to Seokjin at the sink, “What, did you secretly undress me? I won’t judge, Seokjin-ssi.”

Jin faux-retches at the insinuation and brandishes his toothbrush like a sword out of his mouth, “_Dun’f efen.” _His ears burn and Namjoon can swear that his skin is fuming. Seokjin spits out the substance and gargles, then seethes, “You’re a menace, Rap Monster.”

“Whoa, full names? This is getting serious, Kim Seokjin-ssi.”

“I hate you.” Seokjin groans unpleasantly and stomps out of the bathroom first. Namjoon cackles to himself for a while before he brushes his own teeth as well and enters the bedroom again, where Seokjin is seated cross-legged in this perfect yoga pose, his arms folded over his chest and very stern. There’s a border that runs through half the bed, with Seokjin’s side slightly larger.

“No trespassing,” Warns Seokjin with a brief gesticulation of his finger, “And I’m a blanket hoarder.”

“Good to know,” Namjoon slouches on the bouncy mattress, “Are you always so spoiled?”

“I’m _sensitive._”

“Sure, princess.”

“You did _not_ just call me that.”

“I did.”

“I was right – you’re a menace.”

“Suit yourself, princess.” He tucks himself under the blankets, with Seokjin still pissed at him from the other side. “I’ve dealt with plenty spoiled chaebols – you’re better than at least forty-percent of them.”

Seokjin falls back as well until he’s a smudged dot in Namjoon’s peripheral vision. “_Better? _I’m certain that I’m the best-looking chaebol there is, out of that remaining sixty-percent.”

“Whatever makes you sleep better at night, Seokjin-ssi.”

“… I hate you.”

Namjoon doesn’t admit aloud that Seokjin is indeed, true. He doesn’t really need to inflate the man’s ego like that.

“Hey, RM?”

Namjoon stirs, “Hm?”

“Goodnight.”

“Oh,” _I wasn’t expecting that. _“Yeah, goodnight.”

The night’s quiet hangs over them, and Namjoon dreams about the castle of gold, the rich boy who had nothing, Seokjin’s dazzling smile, his soft ‘goodnight’, and a terrorist invading his wedding.

It’s a marvelous dream.


	10. Memories of a Bystander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are the stories of those who have always been around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more like a filler, to be honest, covering the backstories of Jungkook and Hoseok! It provides more insight as to why the two are close to Seokjin and Taehyung, and how they came to help the two. Jungkook's story is still unexplained fully due to the fact that I'm planning to write a sequel to this fic once it's finished... a JiKook fic! Yeah, so the JiKook tension will not be resolved within Call Me By My Name, sorry to all the JiKook shippers of this fic. 
> 
> Otherwise, I've submitted one of my nine college applications - eight more to go! Let's all hope for the best, seniors! 
> 
> Thank you so much as well, to the people who have left kudos and comments on this fic for the last chapter. Feedback always enlivens my day! We're almost at 100 kudos too, so thanks for that guys!
> 
> Anyway, enough of me - let's get started! Enjoy reading!

_Seven. _

_Eight…_

_Nine. _

(Tap, tap.)

_Ten._

Knock, knock.

“Open the door, you rascal.”

Jungkook punches a button and the window slithers south instead. Outside, there’s Park Jimin in a velvet red coat and black leather pants, a chocolate frappe in his right hand. He quirks a brow and lightly knees the car, “Not the window.”

“You could ask nicely, Jimin-ssi,” Jungkook retorts monotonously, but unlocks the doors with a harmonized ‘click’ of metal. “Especially when you’re ten minutes late.”

“I’ll consider it once you drop that icky ‘-ssi’ and formality.” Jimin props himself on the seat and shuts the door. “And it’s not like you have anything better to do. Taetae canceled on you, didn’t he? And Jin-hyung’s in Busan with Hobi-hyung.”

Jungkook steps on the gas with extra strength. “I could be signing off that pile of paperwork in my office or be reading the books Haeyoung-nim bought for me the other day. Taehyung just needed a break.”

“An escort, you mean.” Jimin snorts triumphantly, “How’s he doing? Finally came to his senses?”

“I wouldn’t know. Taehyung seems to like him enough.”

“Hm,” Hums Jimin, staring at the fleeting, blurry view, “I’ll trust your judgment.”

Jungkook presses on the brakes as the lights flash red. “Do I just drop you off at Lotte World?”

“Yeah, at the parking lot, B4.”

“Another boyfriend?”

Jimin swivels his head towards the younger and smirks. “Jealous?”

“Concerned that you’ll lose your reputation as the star dancer of Korea, is all,” Jungkook replies smoothly, not even sparing Jimin a glance. The pink-haired man clucks his tongue and mutters under his breath,

“Jerk. But to answer your question, I’m attending as a special guest for the afternoon parade. I don’t have a date with my boyfriend twenty-four-seven, asshole.”

“Shocker.” Jungkook nods along with the soft music from the speakers, “Who’re you lusting after this time? The speed skater? Or no, is it the model that Taehyung introduced to you? Don’t end nastily then – Taehyung has a Ceci shoot scheduled with that model next month.”

“None of your business, Jeon.” Jimin huffs indignantly and Jungkook bites down a humored grin. “I won’t make Tae’s life more complicated than is. And here I blindly assumed that he’d be the least reckless of our group – who thought he’d pine after an escort, right?”

The bodyguard shrugs nonchalantly, “It’s his decision. I’ll support him if he’s content with it.”

“I guess you’ve always been the open-minded one aside Hoseokie-hyung amongst us.” Jimin pauses as he taps his foot on the fur carpet beneath anxiously, “I worry, you know. I sometimes regret expressing my interest in that site and BigHit. I haven’t talked to Tae in weeks – not that we fought or anything, but he’s always with someone and I’m always with someone I don’t really care about. But Taehyung deserves the best – I believe that. And I tell myself every day that it’s fine as long as Taehyung is happy, as long as he doesn’t regret it. But,” Jungkook steals a glimpse at Jimin’s contorted face reflected on the glass panes. “What if this relationship with that escort ruins him? What if he’s as atrocious as the headlines describe them all to be?”

“Then we beat the fuck out of Suga and discard his body in the Han River. Simple.” Jungkook answers suavely and Jimin snickers aloud at that.

“You’re seriously all muscle and no brain, aren’t you?”

“The brain _is_ a muscle, I have no idea what you mean.”

“Sure, baby bunny.” Jimin unbuckles his seatbelt as they drive into the parking lot. “By the way, I purchased this coat at Dongdae-moon last week. How does it look?”

“Red.”

“Thanks, Sherlock, for the reminder that I’m not colorblind,” Jimin grumbles as he manually unlocks the door. “I’ll pay you back for the ride in the future with a coffee or something.” With that, he marches away with a pout imprinted on his pudgy face. Jungkook rolls his eyes and comments,

“You look cute, Jimin-ssi.”

Jimin turns around and snaps his fingers victoriously.

“I know, Jeon Jungkook.”

_He remembers the exact day – the day he met the Kims. March 14th, White Day. _

_He remembers two boys, both evidently older than him. _

_One had darker hair than the other, his shoulders tense under his ironed button-down as he clamped the other boy’s pudgy hands in his fist. The boy with more tan skin and jean overalls was kicking the pile of snow that the teachers shoveled in the morning. Winter was particularly long that year – not that Jungkook disliked it. Snow meant he could build snowmen. Better than being cooped up in the orphanage. _

_Five adults surrounded the boys – three were dressed like those agents in the American mystery films that the older kids watched on Friday nights. There was a couple with their arms linked leading the crowd, in clothes that Jungkook had never beheld in his entire life. The lady’s gown was one straight out of a Disney Princess movie, with the hems sparkling and ruffled cuffs. The man had finely polished leather loafers and a golden watch around his wrist. Jungkook gaped at the group from his bedroom window. _

_“What’cha starin’ at?” Chanwoo, a thirteen-year-old that shared his room on their bunk bed, queried with a pinched frown. Jungkook pointed at the sight, rather than verbally expressing his shock. Chanwoo sniffed the air, unimpressed. “Ah, those people. I guess you’ve ne’er seen ‘em, bein’ new an’ all. Y’know, they’re the richies. Ones that hang ‘round and pretend to be all friendly for their… repoo-somethin’. Forgot the word.”_

_“Reputation,” Jungkook offered softly and Chanwoo snapped his fingers in his ‘eureka’ moment. _

_“That, that. Reputation, right. For ‘em, that’s a good thing. The most they do is wash the dishes, nothin’ amazing. Sorry to disappoint ya, kid.” Chanwoo ruffles his hair fondly, and Jungkook pouts. _

_“You’re a kid too, Chanwoo-hyung.”_

_“Yeah? I guess I am. Just y’see, though. I’mma leave this petite home and be famous an’ all that. So who cares if my mom didn’t want me, yeah? Has to be someone out there. Has to be someone that loves me, that I can love. Is that funny? Youngmin, that bastard, he laughed his ass off when I said that. Told me to wake up.”_

_Jungkook shook his mushroom head. “That’s a bad word, hyung. But I don’t think it’s funny. I think you’re sagacious.” _

_Chanwoo chuckled. “I don’ even know what that means, kid.”_

_“It means you’re smart, or something.”_

_“Really? Nobody ever calls me smart.” Jungkook shut his eyes when Chanwoo’s fingers coursed through his hair. “You’re the first, Jungkookie. Lemme tell ya a secret. Wanna hear a secret?” The little boy nodded speedily. “Well, here goes, gotta keep it to yourself, though. I actually heard from Miyeon-noona, y’know. Those richies are searchin’ for a brat to help. New… new oppo… I dunno, but it’s apparently great.”_

_“Opportunities? New opportunities?”_

_“Yeah, that. Maybe I should read the dictionaries lying around like ya sometime. But anyway, I have a feelin’ that it’s gonna be you. Your art, your drawings – we’ve seen ‘em, y’know? And I’m dumb with suckish judgment but I know you’re talented, kid. I told noona that it should be you.” Chanwoo grinned proudly at him, but Jungkook’s mind rang in alarm. _

_“Me?” Nod. “Why, why me?” _

_“Well, Jungkookie, you’re smart. Hella lot smarter than I am, than Youngmin, than Hyunwoo, anyone here.” _

_“I don’t want to leave, though.” Jungkook clutched the sleeve of Chanwoo’s pajamas. “I don’t want to leave, hyung. What about my home?”_

_Chanwoo snorted amusingly. “Your home’s here, of course. But Jungkookie, imagine! Do y’know what it’s like out there? ‘Cause I do. There are tall skyscrapers, zoos, and, and- well, ya dunno what those are, right?”_

_“I’ve seen… pictures.”_

_“Well, the world isn’t like books, Jungkookie. And you gotta go out and see the world.” Chanwoo flashed a smile towards him. “You’re the smartest. You deserve it.” _

_Jungkook furrowed his brows. “What does ‘deserve’ mean?”_

_“Aha, solid proof that I’m older, right there. It means you’re worthy, Jungkook-ah. You’ll go out and see the world. You’ll go out and meet people that love you, and people that you can love back. Don’t think about the people that abandoned you. Don’t think about the people that hurt you. Don’t look back, and walk straight ahead. ‘Cause you deserve it, Jungkookie.” Chanwoo beamed warmly, the morning sunbathing his skin. _

_“You’re talking in riddles, hyung,” Jungkook grumbled, irritated. “I don’t get it.”_

_Chanwoo burst out into another fit of laughter, as he tugged on Jungkook’s arm to the dining hall. “C’mon, we’re gonna be late for breakfast. Whaddya think richies eat for breakfast? That fancy stuff with sauce?”_

_Jungkook later learned that Chanwoo wasn’t wrong. _

_When they rushed downstairs, Miyeon was conversing with the two strange adults, and the two boys were seated at the table between the other kids, perfectly out of place with their prim outfits contrasted with the baggy trousers and torn shirts of the others. Jungkook sat on his stool next to Chanwoo, picking up his fork and spoon. Breakfast consisted of grilled spam and rice, with a little pickled radish on a plate. The other children were wolfing down their food, whereas the boys stared at their trays awkwardly. _

_“Tell ‘em how to eat, Jungkookie,” Chanwoo whispered into his ear, his mouth stuffed with rice, “I think the brats don’ know how to eat spam.” _

_Jungkook didn’t think that was really the issue but obliged anyway. He cleared his throat and tapped their trays with his fork. “Hey,” He quietly urged, and two heads turned to face him, “You have to scoop a spoonful of rice, and cut the spam in four pieces, like this. Then you put a piece on your rice with one pickled radish, and nom,” Pushing the spoon into his mouth, he poked at his cheeks with his finger. “’Ike d’ish.” _

_The boys glanced at each other, then followed Jungkook’s example. Chanwoo patted his back encouragingly. _

_“I’ve never eaten spam before,” The darker-haired boy mumbled, “Father tells me that it’s artificial junk.” _

_“Arti- what? Jungkook-ah, what does that mean?” Chanwoo inquired in a hushed tone, but the older boy across the table was quicker. _

_“It means man-made.” Chanwoo’s mouth went ‘oh’ in understanding. “It doesn’t taste that horrible, though. I kind of like it.” _

_“I always liked spam,” The other rich boy quipped, “Shame, really.” _

_“My name is Kim Seokjin – I’m fourteen. This is my brother, Kim Taehyung, and he’s eleven. You?”_

_“I’m Park Chanwoo, thirteen – this kid here is Jeon Jungkook, nine. A pro… right, a prodigy.” Chanwoo introduced both of them, and Seokjin seemed intrigued at the mention of the word, ‘prodigy’. _

_“Really? What can he do?”_

_Jungkook nudged Chanwoo in an attempt to shut him up, but the latter continued, “Everything! Absolutely everything. He sings, dances, plays instruments, paints – he’s awesome. Hey, Jungkook-ah, what happened to that violin noona gave you?” _

_Taehyung spoke brightly, “I like the violin! You play the violin?” _

_“I, um,” Taehyung’s orbs glimmered like constellations, “Yeah, I guess. I paint better, though.”_

_“Ah, I love art as well. Hyung is the worst artist.”_

_“I’m- that’s not true, Tae!” _

_“Well, Jungkook, get your equipment in the room! What’cha doin’, makin’ ‘em wait?” Chanwoo elbowed him gleefully, and Jungkook reluctantly crawled upstairs and trotted down with his brushes and paint, a thick sheet of paper tucked under his arm. _

_He plopped on the mat and laid out his paper and brushes – Chanwoo had sprinted to the sink to retrieve a cup of water – and nervously said, “I’m not as skilled as hyung proclaims. I don’t know why he’s so eager today.” _

_“It’s fine, it’s fine. We just want to watch.” Taehyung probed him to begin, and so Jungkook did. He dipped the tip of his brush into the water and uncapped his tubes of paint. He wasn’t quite certain of what he was painting – it was the process of his imagination. Emerald, turquoise, violet, ruby – the colors mixed and spread across the white surface. _

_“Wow,” Seokjin gasped when he was done, “It’s beautiful.”_

_He had painted flowers, flowers he didn’t know the name of, but patches of flowers. There was no sky, no trees, just flowers, and only flowers._

_“Do you like flowers?” Taehyung questioned and Jungkook shrugged. “Well, I like flowers.” At this point, Jungkook was convinced that there was nothing in this world that Taehyung disliked. “Why’d you paint them?”_

_Jungkook hummed languidly, “They’re pretty.” _

_“Hmm,” Taehyung cocked his head to the left, “And you’re attracted to pretty things?”_

_“I guess. Who isn’t?”_

_“Well, you’re right, in that sense. I like pretty things too.” The boy caressed his painting tenderly, “Like you, Jungkookie! You’re pretty and cute.” _

_“Wha- no, I’m not!” _

_Seokjin squeaked beside them, “Well said, Tae! I was thinking this entire time that he looked like a bunny!” _

_Jungkook stuck his bottom lip out petulantly. “I’m not cute. Not a rabbit, either.” _

_“Nah, Jungkook-ah, they’re correct. You’re exactly like a bunny.” Chanwoo snickered and pulled his earlobe. _

_“I’m not cute,” Jungkook protested for the last time, his mood dampening at a memory – a memory of his parents. If he really were cute, really – if he really were cute, then. _

_“The world is a pretty place too, Jungkook.” Taehyung’s hand wrapped around his fist, and Jungkook coiled at the sudden warmth – but Taehyung simply grasped onto his hand more firmly. _

_“Do you want to see the world with us?”_

***

When Taehyung opens his eyes in the morning dawn beneath a ceiling he doesn’t recognize, he panics.

But then he twists to the side and there is Suga, soundly sleeping with a track of drool dribbled from his parted mouth. His bangs are matted to his forehead, the collar of his shirt is crinkled, and one of his sleeves had rolled up during the night to reveal his pale shoulder. Taehyung admires the glow for a while and hauls the cloth to its original position. It’s still a surreal experience – he’s at Suga’s apartment complex right now, lying on the escort’s bed. Not some common motel bed but _his _bed, at his home. Suga’s room communicated volumes, actually. His furniture is minimalistic and monotonous, which probably means that Suga’s either not around home enough to care or merely doesn’t enjoy being at home – alone.

He outstretches his hand for his phone on the drawer and scrolls through his notifications. He has a few unread messages from Jungkook about his altered schedule and a tweet from Jimin about his new parade participation at Lotte World. Taehyung rolls his eyes at his friend’s bold attempt to dance shirtless in front of five hundred kids accompanied by their guardians.

The device buzzes – a text from Jungkook.

** _Kookie_ **

_I canceled your morning schedules_

_But don’t forget your shoot with Blue_

_And your interview at six_

_I’ll pick you up at noon_

_Don’t fuck I don’t want to buy concealer_

** _You_ **

_Omg_

_We didn’t fuck_

_Wth is wrong w u_

** _Kookie_ **

_Just saying_

_If not then ok_

“Have to go?”

He jumps at the sudden voice, groggy and laced with exhaustion beside him. Suga is gazing at him, his face still puffy from sleep. Taehyung can’t resist the smile that creeps up, as he strokes the smooth jawline of the escort.

“Not until another three hours.”

“Hmm.”

“Missed me?”

“We were literally together all night.”

“I mean,” Taehyung clucks his tongue lightly, “I missed you, though. We haven’t seen each other for ten hours.” Suga’s steely orbs soften and his eyes transform into crescents. Taehyung kind of wants to kiss him.

“You goofball.”

“Your favorite.”

Suga huffs blithely, “You’re not wrong.”

“Are we going to brush our teeth or talk with morning breath?”

“Mm,” Suga inches closer towards the model and snuggles against his chest, “We’re going to lie down for another thirty minutes and not talk. Then we can brush our teeth, eat something, and you’ll go home.”

Taehyung slings his arm around Suga’s smaller frame, “You have this all planned out, don’t you?”

“And you have complaints about that?”

“No, I find organized people sexy. You’re sexy.”

Suga snivels amusedly. “Shut up now.”

And Taehyung does. He pulls the man in and buries his nose into the fluff of hair – it smells like a muddle of fever and sweat, but also mint and fruity soap. He can feel Suga’s foot wriggle between his ankles and suppresses a giggle. His knees knock against Suga’s thighs and the man whines, agitated. _So cute, _he notes, _like a kitten. _

Thirty-two minutes later, Taehyung cups Suga’s cheek and murmurs, “Time to brush our teeth, hyung.”

“Ugh,” Suga rumbles and shakes his head in denial, “Your breath stinks.”

“Exactly.”

“Get me my toothbrush?”

Taehyung guffaws jovially. “Are you always so needy?”

“High maintenance,” Suga amends, throwing a pillow over his face, “Get it right.”

“Alright, high maintenance boy. I’ll get your toothbrush.” He slides off the bed and strolls to the bathroom, grabs their toothbrushes, and jabs it right into the escort’s mouth. It strikes him then – _it’s like we’re dating. _Aren’t these stuff that normal couples would do? Sleepovers, brushing teeth, breakfast together – domestic, ordinary things. His last relationship had been much more extravagant for such typical activities; she was a fellow model and the daughter of Doojung Constructions. Their travels to Paris and Florence were memorable, but Taehyung had always longed for gentle, mellow relationships – ones where he could be him and be comfortable.

Suga stands up first to rinse his mouth and when he comes out, Taehyung enters. He cleanses his oily face and flushes in shame when he imagines that Suga had seen his face up close in this condition. _God, I should’ve applied some cream in the morning or something. _

When he wallows in sorrow and embarrassment as he slumps out of the bathroom, Suga peeks at him from the doorway.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“Huh? Oh, oh. Uh, I don’t know, what do you have?”

“Rice. Cereal. I don’t usually eat breakfast.”

Taehyung frowns. “That’s not healthy for you.”

“I know, Sherlock, I watched the documentaries too. So, rice or cereal?”

“Cereal, thanks.”

“No problem.” Suga marches back to the kitchen, and Taehyung stifles a yawn and trails behind him. “Take a seat over there. You can watch TV – the remote’s on the couch. Do you like strawberry milk? I only have strawberry milk, so honestly, you don’t have a choice.”

He drops to the floor around the table and flicks the switch for the TV. “No worries, I eat everything digestible. Is there Tooniverse on this?”

“Yeah, 102.”

“A’ight.” He switches to the channel and waits patiently for Suga – the man is setting two bowls of cereal and strawberry milk and balancing them on the roundtable Taehyung used yesterday night. It’s absolutely charming to stare at the man, struggling to rip the bag of cereal and preparing a meal he never eats, all for Taehyung. It raises his hopes, which he’s aware that he shouldn’t, but he can’t really stop himself. Even if Suga were doing this out of common courtesy, he’d still be elated.

Cautiously tiptoeing back to the living room, Suga glimpses at the TV once. “You like _One Piece_?”

“Mm. Chopper’s endearing, don’t you think?”

“Eh, I’ve always been a Zoro fan.”

“Yeah? He’s cool too.” Suga smiles and munches on his cereal. The combination of strawberry milk and cocoa balls is odd and refreshing, but Taehyung appreciates the effort. “You don’t believe that it’s childish? That I still enjoy cartoons and all that.”

The escort quirks his brow, “Why would I? Who am I to judge your preference?”

“I mean,” He gulps, “I don’t know. My father admonished me about it the other day.”

“Screw your dad, then.” Suga shrugs dismissively, “He should be grateful that you’re such a great person.”

“You think so?”

“Of course,” Suga doesn’t waste a second to answer, “I can attest to it.”

Taehyung allows his eyes to linger on the man for a while and then resumes to chewing on his own portion of cereal. When there’s only pink milk remaining, he hesitantly glances at Suga. “Can I ask you something?”

Suga doesn’t really look at him, his bowl still unfinished. “Yeah.”

“Are you going to ignore me after this? After I leave?” That seems to induce the other to skid to a halt. The escort gradually crooks his head towards Taehyung, his expression indecipherable. “Because no offense, you’ve never been so… vulnerable? Open? I don’t know, this is new. Like the time we kissed. That was new and unprecedented. You didn’t accept my requests afterward for two weeks. Is this going to be a repeat of that?” Suga blinks once, twice, hard. “If so, you have to warn me. I told you yesterday that you don’t stress me out, but you are capable of hurting me, just like anyone else. And I don’t like hurting. So I, I have to be, I don’t know, mentally prepared.”

“Mentally prepared for me to hurt you?” Suga whispers circumspectly, as he mutes the volume of the TV. Soon, the house goes silent, the only noise in the background being the honking of cars on the streets and the systematic tick-tock of Suga’s analogous clock. Taehyung nods, somewhat lost. Suga heaves a sigh and lets his spoon slip into the bowl of milk and floating cereal. “I don’t want to hurt you either, Taehyung. It’s, just.” Sweeping his muss of hair out of his sight, Suga nibbles on his lip. “I know it won’t end well. _We _won’t end well.”

“You don’t know that,” Taehyung counters calmly, “It can’t be possible that _every _escort relationship fails. Kim Heechul –“

“Heechul-sunbae,” Suga sharply interjects, “was special. He was always unique. A deviant. Valiant. It’s not that escort-civilian relationships fail and drown without exception, that’s not what I’m trying to say. It’s just me, as a person. _I _won’t work for you.”

“You might believe that Suga,” He processes his argument in his head, “but I don’t. Maybe you’re right – maybe we really aren’t meant to be. But I don’t know you enough to say that.”

Suga twitches a little, “You don’t know me enough to like me either. Yet you do.”

_Well. _“I like Suga – I know about Suga.”

“Sure, but do you know about _me_?”

“Is Suga not at least an aspect of your identity?” Taehyung suggests and Suga freezes. “I don’t think I know _you _either – but that goes both ways. Do you really know me, Suga? You know my profession, but so do I. You know my favorite beverage and food, but so do I. The stark contrast is that you know my name but I don’t know yours. Other than that, aren’t we pretty even?” The man across the table inhales. “I want to find out more about you. I like Suga, that’s true – I may not like _you. _But you’re Suga, aren’t you? Can you really, confidently claim that all of ‘Suga’ is not you, that Suga doesn’t contain you at all?” Exhale. “I don’t think so. Just like how Suga isn’t its own individual, V, the model, is also not totally distinguishable from Kim Taehyung. So don’t, don’t be so conclusive. Suga and V might not work, but Kim Taehyung and ‘you’ might.”

Suga releases a stuttered sigh. “I,” He avoids looking directly at him, “I haven’t been me for the past five years. I forget what it’s like to be me. It’s easier – Suga is easier. He has a script, a stable behavior pattern, and he pays the bills. I don’t want you to know me – you can stick with Suga. Suga can satiate your interest, Taehyung – I can’t.”

Taehyung has a premonition, that at this rate, they’re going to be nowhere. This wasn’t unforeseen – he had an inkling that Suga had a past, just like everyone – but his past left a jarring wound. The wound was left untreated and infected, and it was dispersing over the expanse of his body, from his brain to nerves to heart. Taehyung had secrets and scars, too. But he had a family – not in the literal sense, but friends akin to a family that wiped his tears and built a sanctuary so that he’d feel protected and loved.

But Suga, obviously, wasn’t the same.

“Do you have siblings, hyung?” Taehyung perks up with an idea.

“Uh, yeah. A brother.”

“Cool, I have a brother too. You know that already, I guess. I also had a baby brother and sister.”

“Had?”

“They died in a car crash.” Taehyung shrugs and Suga clamps his mouth. “Do you like orange juice with pulps or no?”

“I, er, don’t mind either.”

“Yeah? I do. I abhor pulpy orange juice. It’s _juice, _y’ know? I’d eat an orange if I wanted the fruit.” Suga nods sagely as if attempting to follow his dispute. “Who’s your best friend?”

“RM. Maybe Taemin. He’s a little bitch.”

“Hah, yeah. I have tons of best friends! Like Jiminie, although we’ve been distant nowadays, then there’s Hobi-hyung, he’s the best. And Kookie, although he’s a brat. I love them all.”

“Okay,” Suga accedes, “What’s that for?”

“That’s all you, isn’t it?” Taehyung beams, “All you. You have a brother, you don’t have a preference for pulpy orange juice, and your best friends are RM and Taemin. That’s all you – also Suga. None of that information deterred me of my affection. You’re still the person I’m most attracted to.”

Suga sputters, flustered, “You weren’t- you weren’t asking the right questions! You could ask any pedestrian on the street and that wouldn’t –“

“Well, maybe. But baby steps, baby steps. I wouldn’t want to freak you out and ask what your hidden kinks are out of the blue. You can tell me more about yourself as we go, and so will I. Then I’ll determine for myself whether I don’t like ‘you’ or not, and you can do that too. I just don’t want you to reject me like this. If you don’t know me enough to like me, then certainly, you don’t know me enough to reject me either.” He pauses to observe Suga’s reaction. The latter’s pupils are blown wider than usual, and his posture is ramrod straight. “Can you grant me a chance, Suga?”

“… Are you asking me out?” Suga smirks slyly, and Taehyung’s heart tap-dances at the seductive curve of his wet lips. He was swooning yesterday because the man was so damned adorable, but now he is dying internally at how Suga’s loose shirt is on the verge of slipping off his pale shoulders.

“I mean, up to you. We can, I don’t know, maintain the ‘submit-request-you-accept’ procedure. Like an entrée stage, get it? A trial period? Whatever you want.”

Suga casts his gaze south and falls quiet. He fondles with the fabric of his pants, and Taehyung’s tongue dries in anxiety. What if the escort refused? That route is highly probable, actually. This is a risky decision on his part – if Suga turned him down, then what else could he do? What alternative remained? He promised the escort that he’d delete his number, but if Suga really blocked him out, could he do that? He still would, but he’d regret it. It’s now or never. Now or never.

“Once a week.”

Taehyung jolts awake from his trance. “Huh?”

“Once a week,” Suga reiterates in a paced manner, “Let’s meet. But not through the agency.”

“Not through the agency,” Taehyung restates like a parrot, “Why not?”

Suga flushes pink, or so it seems to Taehyung – perhaps it’s the sunlight angled on his skin. “I can’t date a client, Taehyung. Company policies.”

_He can’t date a client. He doesn’t want me to be his client. He’s – _“Oh. _Oh._ Yeah, um. Sorry, I can’t read between the lines. So, um, is that…”

“Yes, Taehyung, you persuaded me. Let’s do the trial period. What do the youngsters call it nowadays? A _some_? I don’t know, I’m too old.”

“You’re twenty-seven and I’m twenty-five.”

“Stop arguing with me.” Suga grunts jokingly, “I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.”

Taehyung laughs along, and when it dies and dissipates, he finally asks, “So, what’s your plan? Will I have to knock on your door every day of the week to check if you’re free or not?”

“No, silly. I’ll call you beforehand. Then we can decide on the next date when we meet in person. I’m free on the 5th. Got anything then?”

Taehyung rummages for his phone and scans his schedule. “Nah, but Jungkookie might’ve added something. I’ll inform him to keep the day vacant. Speaking of which, he texted me to come down to the parking lot.”

“Yeah, thought so.” Suga rises to his feet and gathers Taehyung’s belongings as the latter pulls into the clothes he wore last night. They both stand still at the doorstep, Taehyung’s foot edging on the exit and Suga barefooted. Everything feels quite ethereal and surreal – an ephemeral dream that wouldn’t last another second. But Suga is here, fixing the wacky buttons of Taehyung’s shirt and patting out the creases of his sleeves, muttering inaudible curses under his breath when the creases just deepen. Taehyung chuckles at the act and caresses the man’s candyfloss hair.

“Can I kiss you?” Taehyung mumbles next to Suga’s ear, “And you won’t severe all ties with me afterward?”

Suga’s face contorts in guilt, “Taehyung, that was, um,” He groans inevitably, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m just messing with you, hyung.” He pinches the shorter male’s nose. “Can I kiss you?”

“… Yeah.”

“Close your eyes?”

“Fuck, you’re so cheesy.” Despite his complaints, Suga obeys and flutters his eyelids shut. Taehyung grazes his tongue against his canine tooth, reveling at the moment, and then pecks Suga on the cheek. His cheek is warm and smooth, almost silky. Suga jerks and hisses, “_Fu- _you _imbecile, _you did not –“ And Taehyung mutes him with a proper kiss on the mouth, and Suga soon melts into the sensation – his mouth tastes like strawberry milk and cereal. Sweet.

When it’s over, the escort slaps him lightly on the arm. “I hate you.”

Taehyung snickers and fiddles with the strap of his bag, “Take your meds, hyung, just in case. You’ll call me before the 5th, won’t you? For the location and everything.”

“Sure, yeah, whatever. I’m regretting everything already, and we’re five minutes into this.”

“You won’t, I promise.” Taehyung grins at him determinedly, as Suga just gestures to get lost. He skips to the elevator and hops into his car where Jungkook is, the widest smile plastered over his face. His secretary scrutinizes him once over in suspicion.

“You fucked.”

“Oh my god, Kookie, _no_.”

***

Seokjin discovers that RM had to depart hours earlier than the rest of the group for an emergency assignment from BigHit. It was a 24-hour contract anyway, Hoseok justifies, which frankly, Seokjin doesn’t particularly care about. Well, he might’ve panicked a little more than necessary when he woke up alone in bed, but still. He bides his farewell to the members of the orphanage and Hoseok drives them back to Seoul, where Seokjin is required to attend a dinner session with Leejung’s family and his parents. He’s dreading it, honestly. Leejung’s father had passed away and his mother was pretty much absent in his life, but his relatives were in constant contact with the guy. If Seokjin is correct, Leejung’s aunt and uncle are the guests of the dinner tonight.

“It can’t be that bad, Jin.” Hoseok reassures him as they rush past the sign that announces in bold letters, ‘Welcome to Seoul’. “Just a dinner, y’ know? And you’re meeting Leejung before everything, right? Should be sorted out, then.”

“I don’t want to have a conversation with him.” Seokjin spits bitterly – he recalls the phone call from yesterday. He can recite Leejung’s exact words: _“Seokjin, are you insane? What if the paparazzi catch you with this dude? What about my reputation, Seokjin? I can see the headlines already – ‘fiancé of the Yoo Digital’s CEO in an affair with a common man.’ Think this through, Seokjin, for Pete’s sake – I thought you were shrewder than this.”_

_Sullying his rep, my ass. _Seokjin grits – had Leejung thought of Seokjin’s reputation at all, when he suddenly dropped the bomb that he couldn’t attend his father’s social meet? It was a pain in the ass to deal with the executives of the company the next morning, the greasy old men in business suits sneering at him, _“Challenging, isn’t it? Being abnormal and all, I’m sure.” _Abnormal? How is Seokjin’s sexuality their concern in the slightest?

Hoseok sighs. “I know you don’t, trust me. I’m sorry that I can’t tweak the arrangements – my ability is limited, you know that.”

“What? I’m not faulting you, Seokie, none of this is on you.”

“I know. Just, yeah. I despise it, you know? That I can’t do more. I’m supposed to alleviate your workload, assist you, all that. I just think that I don’t do much. Like your engagement too – there’s nothing I can do about it, and it’s frustrating.” Hoseok scratches his head, “Sometimes I wonder if this really was for the best.”

Seokjin huffs defiantly. “Don’t spout trash, Hoseokie. I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for your presence. You’re the most amazing secretary ever, and you’re my proud best friend. There really is nothing you can do about the engagement – I mean, yeah, I really don’t want to marry him. The more I spend time with him, the more I can intuitively realize that we’re never going to be capable of loving each other. But that’s always been my life, right?”

Hoseok grips the steering wheel, his face hardening.

“Yeah. I guess.”

_Jung Hoseok’s family was poor. _

_There’s no nice, sugarcoated version of the statement. They were poor, his parents and his sister living in a cramped rundown apartment in Seoul. His father was fired from his post in Gwangju after the company wobbled during the years of economic depression, and they were forced to move to the more urban cities until his parents finally settled in the capital. His parents had day and night shifts so that when one regressed home, the other left. Hoseok barely remembers an evening in which both parents were present under their roof. _

_Due to the fact that their parents both slept after their shifts, Hoseok’s sister, Jung Dawon, was basically his third parental figure. The petite girl studied her mother’s recipe book avidly after school, her eyes concentrated on the dull knife and withering onion on the cutting board every dinner. Hoseok was ordered to stay perched on the chair next to his sister with the first-aid box on his lap. Occasionally, Dawon would cut her finger with a careless slip of the knife and Hoseok would screech and frantically chuck out the bandages and ointment. _

_“Dawon, you’re bleeding, oh my gosh, you’re bleeding –“_

_“Hoseok, chill, geez.” His sister would chastise him, “It’s just a cut, and I’m not going to die. C’mon, I still have to dice the onions.” Dawon was resilient and powerful, despite her size and frail body. Hoseok had always admired her strength and courage that he was never born with. _

_Eventually, Dawon had mastered their mother’s cookbook, and meals were never a problem. Washing the dishes was Hoseok’s task, and cooking was Dawon’s. The laundry was Hoseok’s, and throwing out the trash bags was Dawon’s. _

_They never had sufficient amounts of clothing for both siblings. So Dawon would scissor her small skirts and blouses and sew them back together for Hoseok, into pants and shirts. One could facilely notice the clumsy handiwork of the child, but Hoseok thought it was the coolest thing ever. His friends at kindergarten teased him for the rectangular patches of pink and girly cloth smack in the middle of his T-shirts or jeans, but Hoseok sniffed the air and shrugged them off. Dawon was more important to him than the suckish opinions of the other kids. _

_In eighth grade, he bumped into one very rambunctious Kim Taehyung. _

_Hoseok was trudging back home, giddy and enthusiastic to tell his sister about his full score on his English test. Just when he was about to jog across the road, a tug on his bag almost sent him toppling backward. _

_Perplexed, he swiveled around and met eyes with a boy that appeared to be a millisecond away from bursting into tears. _

_“Uh,” He began, unsure how to progress from thereon. _

_“I’m lost.” The boy said chokingly, “I- I was just curious about the stray cat, and- and- they were all gone. Where am I? D-do you know where the police station is? Am I- do you think I should stay here, or –“_

_“Whoa, whoa, buddy.” Hoseok rubbed the boy’s back, “Slow down. Deep breaths. You think you can breathe with me? Inhale for three seconds, exhale for six. One, two, three… that’s it, bud.” He inspected the boy’s appearance for five seconds. He was beyond an amateur when it came to fashion and brand names compared to Dawon, but he could infer that the clothes the boy was wearing were not cheap. His sneakers seemed to be personally crafted too, with his initials of T. K. on the side. Hoseok subconsciously kneeled to conceal his battered and flattened shoes from the younger. _

_Gradually, the boy was soothed by Hoseok’s touches, and explained how he got here. His name was Kim Taehyung, a year younger than Hoseok, and he was also on his way home until his brother decided that he had to stop by the toilet. _

_“I shouldn’t have left the car,” Taehyung mumbled dejectedly, “But the stray cat was cute.” _

_“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I skipped school once because I went chasing after this butterfly.” Hoseok replied, “And I’d totally wouldn’t be able to contain myself, too. Strays are cute, aren’t they?” _

_Taehyung nodded vigorously. “Yeah, they are.”_

_“But lost, huh? That’s a predicament, isn’t it? Should I walk you to the station?” Dawon would be worried if he was late, but this was an emergency. She’d let it pass. _

_“Would you?”_

_“Yeah, sure. I know this town like the back of my hand. C’mon, follow hyung.” So he linked hands with Taehyung and guided him to the police station, where he related to the police officer what happened. The officer shot up in alarm when he heeded the term ‘Kim Collective’ and ‘Kim Seokhoon’ and began dialing a bunch of numbers as he hollered ‘lost kid, top priority’. Hoseok wasn’t sure what was going on, but he got that this kid must be from some renowned family. _

_Half an hour later, a man in a dress shirt and the coolest red necktie Hoseok had seen in his life rushed into the station, a tall boy panting by his hip. Taehyung lit up and exclaimed, “Hyung!” and dashed for the boy – he must be Taehyung’s brother, Kim Seokjin. _

_And well, Kim Seokjin – he was, well, the prettiest boy Hoseok ever met. Prettier than the girls and more handsome than all the celebrities in the dramas that his sister fawned over. It was like he was another entity altogether. A faerie, perhaps? _

_Taehyung dragged his brother to Hoseok and introduced him, “Hyung, this is Jung Hoseok, my savior! He likes stray cats too, and, and… he has a sister, right.” _

_Seokjin perused Hoseok head to toe, and for the first time in forever, Hoseok was insecure about his clothing and whatnot. He suddenly caught the stitches of his tainted shirt undone with a strand of string hanging lifelessly from the fabric, and the hot pink patch from his sister’s Disney princess dress stuck out like a sore thumb on his jeans. His hair was an utter disaster, too – shoot, he bathed yesterday, didn’t he? Seokjin looked like he showered three times a day. “Hi, Seokjin-hyung. I’m Jung Hoseok.” He greeted tensely, wary of Seokjin’s intimidating stare. Although his friends’ subtle jabs and jeers at his family’s poverty never bothered him, he had this feeling that it’d hurt if it came from Seokjin. _

_“Hi, Hoseok. You can just address me as Jin.” Seokjin smiled a little, and then skimmed Hoseok’s jeans, “Did you buy those jeans at a store?”_

_“Uh, no. My sister sewed the cloth on.” Crap, he was going to insult his sister’s lackluster job. How she hadn’t stitched the patch on evenly, or something. Hoseok wouldn’t know how he’d react if he really did say that. Punch him? Dump that trashcan? _

_“Aw, shame. I want one too.” Seokjin’s shoulders sagged, “My favorite color is pink.” _

_Hoseok froze. “Really?”_

_“Yeah, really. See?” Seokjin pointed at his shoes – pink Converse sneakers. “My pencil case is baby pink, by the way. I mean, father always tells me that it’s girly, but you know.” _

_“It’s not girly!” Hoseok bellowed fiercely, and Seokjin went static at his outburst. Oops. “Oh, uh. It’s not girly. There shouldn’t be boy or girl colors. You should be able to like what you like. I like my jeans, too.” _

_Seokjin nodded, albeit stiffly. “Right.” He relaxed, then, “You’re right. Color isn’t limited by gender distinctions. That’s wise.” _

_“I know, I’m kind of wise.” _

_“Now, let’s not get too cocky here.” Seokjin wriggled his brows and the two soon cackled together, doubling over. Taehyung blinked at them. _

_After that, Hoseok blended in with the Kims like they’d been friends for an eternity, and soon became acquainted with Jungkook and Jimin as well. Hoseok was invited over to the Kims’ mansion, and if he were to be blunt, it wasn’t the most pleasant experience. The treehouse was magnificent and all, but it wasn’t a very nice feeling to be gossiped about. He saw the disapproval in Mrs. Kim’s long fake lashes and red lipstick, as she examined him head to toe as Seokjin had upon their first encounter. But instead of complimenting his style like her son, Mrs. Kim said, “I think your friend needs new clothes, Seokjin-ah. Why don’t you buy a wardrobe for the poor boy?” _

_And, well. It could’ve been a gesture of hospitality on her part. Not that Hoseok was affronted or anything – they were poor, it was true. But the way she smacked her lips twice, how her brows quirked in disappointment aimed at her son, and how she exchanged nonverbal messages with her husband that, well, seemed transparent that she didn’t appreciate his presence in the house – her actions hadn’t hurt him personally, but it felt as if she was degrading Dawon’s efforts to raise him, to care for him, and to feed him. And Dawon was the best sister in the world to Hoseok – no one had the right to criticize her. It wasn’t fair that people judged Dawon’s attributes based on Hoseok. _

_Seokjin had been irked at that, though. “Hoseok can wear what he wants, mother, that’s none of your business.” He grasped Hoseok’s hand and fled the scene before his parents could punish him for his unruly behavior. _

_“I’m sorry about my parents, Hoseok.” Seokjin apologized when they were both safely in his room, “They’re… I mean, they’re not bad people, I swear. They’re just like that sometimes.”_

_Hoseok chortled and assured that it was no big deal. He didn’t know why Seokjin was apologizing for the misconduct of his parents in the first place. But Seokjin was like that – apologizing for everyone, taking the blame and bearing the brunt of the impact when he had done nothing wrong. _

_When Hoseok invited Seokjin over to his house, Dawon went ballistic. “But our house, Hoseok, our house! What about, what about the stains and the marks and, and, oh my god, I haven’t thrown out the trash for the week, what if he thinks we’re filthy?” _

_“He isn’t like that, noona, he’s the sweetest guy in humanity’s history.” But she shook her head rapidly, scrambling for the rag and washcloths. “Why are you so worried, anyway? I’ve invited friends over before.”_

_“Because, Hoseok-ah, because. I can’t have you lose a friend just because we can’t afford a proper refrigerator.” _

_Seokjin didn’t mind that Hoseok’s house lacked a proper refrigerator. He sat down with Hoseok and Dawon and as they prattled on about games and childish matters – Dawon was so charmed, that she emptied their last bag of sugar to bake cookies for Seokjin. _

_As Hoseok walked Seokjin out, Seokjin said, “Your sister is so nice. I see why you gush about her practically every day.” _

_“Jealous? You can’t have her, though, she’s my sister.” _

_“I’m satisfied with my brother, thanks.” Seokjin puffed, but Hoseok saw the void in his friend. He was there when Mrs. Kim ran her nail-polished fingers through her wavy hair, tut-tutting her tongue as she reprimanded Seokjin for his preference of Disney princesses. “Be a man, Seokjin – you’re the heir of Kim Collective.” He was there when Seokjin passed out after three all-nighters studying economics and business books and case studies his father shoved onto his already weighty workload. He was there when Seokjin pounded on his door one midnight in his second year of high school, tears rolling down his cheeks and his cries muffled as he desperately covered his mouth with his palms. _

_“Jin? Fuck, Jin,” Hoseok had ushered his best friend into his untidy home, shutting the door firmly as Seokjin collapsed onto their couch littered with dirty sweatpants and instant ramyeon cups. He wrapped his arms protectively around his sobbing friend and whispered ‘it’s going to be alright’, ‘Jin, come on, I’m here for you’ into his ears until the sobs were reduced to hiccups. “What’s wrong? Tell Mama Hobi, yeah?”_

_Jin snorted, which he took as a positive sign. He could hear the snores of his father, who just stumbled home from his shift, in the bedroom. _

_“I’m gay.”_

_Hoseok let that sink in. He wasn’t very startled by the revelation – his friend never seemed too intrigued about Hoseok’s stash of gravure magazines, and he was too updated about the recent male idol trends. “Jin, you know I’d never judge you for that, right? Taehyung’s gay, Jimin’s pretty much gay, heck, I think I’m bisexual. I’ll, we’ll all love you, no matter who you are, what you are.” _

_“I know, I know that,” Seokjin inhaled, then exhaled, and inhaled again. Hoseok felt as if his heart were tearing in two – he hated it when his friends were in pain, and when he couldn’t do anything about it. It reminded him of how helpless he had been with Dawon; how all he could do was bandage her chubby fingers when she bled. “But my parents, Hobi, my parents. What am I going to tell them?” _

_Hoseok scowled. “Tae came out and it was fine, wasn’t it?”_

_“Yeah, but, but I’m me, Hope-ah.” Seokjin coughed, “I can’t blemish the company. I, I have to be perfect – I know it’s impossible but I have to be perfect, and, and, fuck. They’re going to be all passive about it again, like, ‘yes, we still love you as you are,’ but I, I –“ His fresh tears soaked Hoseok’s shirt. “I fucking hate myself, Hobi, I fucking hate myself, I hate how I can’t say anything back, I hate how I’m so afraid of losing them – I hate how when I saw Taehyung weeping for his parents, my mind was overwhelmed with the thought that I couldn’t be like him. I can’t lose my parents, I can’t lose them – what am I without my family, Hoseok? What, what am I without the Kim of my name? Nothing, nothing, nothing –“_

_“No, no, Jin, no.” Hoseok chanted like a mantra, “No, don’t say that, don’t say that…” But Seokjin babbled on, babbled on about how he’d be nothing without his name, how he felt constricted in his room that was five times the size of Hoseok’s whole apartment but couldn’t afford to leave. “You’re Jin, **our** Jin. Nothing will change that, Jin, are you listening? You can like Disney princesses, you can like pink, you can be gay, fuck, you can, I don’t know, confess that you’re the spawn of the devil, and I’ll still love you. We’ll still love you – Tae, Jiminie, Kook, all of us. Jin, you hear me? Jin, love, you hear me?” _

_Seokjin’s voice wavered and cracked like fragile glass, his skin scorching hot against Hoseok’s cold skin and the icy night breeze that seeped through the broken windows of Hoseok’s apartment. “I don’t want to live like this, Hope-ah,” Jin murmured brokenly, and Hoseok shut his eyes. “I don’t want to live.” _

_“No, no, stop.” He wasn’t sure how much more he could tolerate. Seokjin was slithering away, vanishing into the thin atmosphere, through the spaces between Hoseok’s slender fingers. “You have to live, Jin-hyung, for me, for us. I’ll be here, we’ll always be here. Just,” A searing flame seemed to light on his face as tears cascaded from his eyes, “Just don’t say things like that. Please.” _

_Seokjin didn’t answer him. Instead, he brought his hand up to cup the back of Hoseok’s neck and pulled him into a tighter embrace. _

_“Don’t leave, Seok-ah,” Jin begged, his breath moist and somber. “Please don’t leave me. Kim or not, please don’t leave me.” _

_Hoseok wanted to rip the world apart. He wanted to scream at Seokjin’s parents, his damned household that valued their so-called honorable name, the name that was smashing Seokjin into pieces. Seokjin was rich and Hoseok was poor. Seokjin lived in a golden castle and Hoseok was often convinced that his apartment would burn to ashes any moment. But the world tortured Seokjin to bits and rewarded Hoseok with the strongest sister in the universe and an accepting family. _

_Hoseok both loved and loathed this world for doing that. _

_“I’ll never leave you, Jin. Kim or not, I’ll never leave you. Your name never mattered. You’re always going to be Jin to me, my Jin, our Jin.” He could sense Jin’s shivers, his repressed sobs. Hoseok wished he had reached out faster, sooner. “I love you, Jin-hyung, you know that, right?”_

_Jin shifted in their embrace. _

_“Yeah. Yeah, I love you too.”_

_“Okay. As long as you know.”_

_The world might’ve betrayed Seokjin’s pleas. _

_Hoseok would never. _

_Jung Hoseok could never. _


	11. Adversity, Epiphany, and "Will you be my boyfriend?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New adversities, a long-due epiphany, and of course, "Will you be my boyfriend?" in one ultimate package. On sale, only one chapter long, make your purchase now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY CAN I JUST BE SUPER HAPPY THAT WE'RE AT 100+ KUDOS LIKE WOW GUYS WOW AHHHHHHHHH-
> 
> I'm good. 
> 
> Huuuuuuggggeeee thanks to everyone that left kudos and comments last chapter! You guys are the best <333
> 
> Anyway, I kind of panicked because I totally thought I updated last week, but jokes on me, it was two weeks ago. Imagine my terrified face as I blinked at my half-finished chapter 11 and nowhere-to-be-seen chapter 12. I completed it in time, so that's all that matters though, right? Right. That being said, please note that the next update could be delayed by a week or so as I try to catch up with my writing - I hope that doesn't bother you all too much (I'm sorry I'm horrible at time management).
> 
> I don't really like this chapter (oops) because it seems like a rocky transition, but please forgive me and my lack of dexterity when it comes to writing. I'm working on it D:
> 
> ... But we do get plot progression, so I hope you guys enjoy it!

Min Yoongi deems company hangouts as abominations.

Taemin insists that the purpose is to forge stronger unification among the members of BigHit. If the definition of ‘unification’ is to chug down fifteen beers and to gain a lucky sugardaddy along the journey, Yoongi will take it. The bi-annual hangouts appeared more like an environmental and social hazard than the unification of any sort, in his opinion.

“It’s mandatory, so might as well drink for free, right?” Namjoon always remarks when Yoongi rants about the preposterousness of the whole event. Of course, his fellow escort never suffered from this enormous bullshit – Namjoon is well-accepted in any crowd, whether that be the promiscuous S ward crew or the more bubbly B ward amateurs. Yoongi, on the other hand, is antisocial and introverted as fuck. Most escorts forget the fact that his alias is now Suga and still call him Gloss. The newbie escorts usually don’t dare to approach him – which is rather ridiculous, because Yoongi doesn’t bite. Not that he’s complaining; he doesn’t want social interaction.

His deep-rooted abhorrence isn’t really focused on the atmosphere of the occasion, though. No, it travels far back – farther back, in the pits of his memory that he thrust under his consciousness.

He peers despondently at the digital clock of the ground floor. The floor is vibrating beneath his feet – U-Kwon must be blasting some clubbing music downstairs, for sure. He winces when a deafening scream echoes throughout the empty halls. _God, I really don’t want to be there more than ever now. _

He presses B5 when he steps into the lift, remorseful for his inevitable destiny as the numbers descended.

Of course, it’s the epitome of chaos.

The most prominent sight is U-Kwon twerking on top of the DJ control tower, three meters higher than the surface, green and pink neon lights flashing on his naked torso. The horde is going wild, and there’s a _chamiseul_ bottle catapulted towards the ceiling – it lands on a plastic table in the corner and shatters. Mino seems adamant to climb the tower for some reason, but Yoongi doesn’t believe that he’s going to achieve his goal, based on how the man is swaying back and forth deliriously.

To the secluded, dimmed lighting of the right, he can spot some VIP clients and more privileged guests occupied with sucking the lips of other S ward escorts, and the excessive voyeurism kink that is involved creeps Yoongi out. Behind the shelves of alcohol and other questionable substances, there’s Chanyeol and Baekhyun grinding against each other’s crotches, fully clothed, and Yoongi just desperately wants to go back home. He didn’t subscribe to any of this free porn.

Instead of lounging about in the main hall any longer, he briskly weaves through the dancing group and escapes to the more reserved, tranquil bar that is (as tranquil as it can be) further inside. There are many familiar faces, such as N and Leo, as well as the Head Escorts, Taeyang and Hero.

“Hey, Suga. Haven’t seen you around lately,” Taeyang tips his glass of Bloody Mary as Hero places another order for a Pisco Sour. Yoongi sits next to the Head Escort of the B ward and asks for water, in which the bartender curtly nods. “What have you been up to?”

“Nothing much, just the normal gimmick and jazz,” He replies nonchalantly, tapping his foot against the metal platform that protruded from the bottom of the counter. “Trying to survive under the worst Head Escort of the three wards.”

Hero chuckles aloud, “Accurate. Taemin’s the queerest amongst us.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You’re the one that inserts random questions like, ‘would you prefer a banana or a zucchini in your asshole’ when it doesn’t affect the applicant’s results at all.” Taeyang snorts as he sips his beverage. “Although, Suga, your answer was outstanding.”

“Of course, that’s why I hogged him. I’ve never had an interviewee respond, ‘I’d rather have an eggplant if anything’ in my history of interviews.” Hero winks at Suga, and the escort groans at the memory. “The thicker the better, I agree.”

“I was talking out of my ass, Head Escort Hero.” He waves his hand, reaching for the cup of water in front of him. “Nothing noteworthy.”

A short laugh evades Hero. “I suppose. N did respond that he’d want both at once.” ‘I heard my name, Head Escort!’ N hollers in their direction from his stool, and Hero just shrugs him off. “I think he’s finally gotten over his client dating phase and is now flirting with Leo. They’re compatible with each other – I support them.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you and Taemin ever respect the company’s guidelines,” Taeyang shakes his head forlornly, “Don’t you agree, Suga? I swear, if Taemin doesn’t get rid of those flowers, I’ll burn them all someday.”

“Wholeheartedly, Head Escort Taeyang,” He nods lightly as Hero retorts,

“Please, Taeyang. You think you’re discreet about your own celebrity girlfriend.”

“… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, yeah, dream on.” Hero drinks the remnants of his drink and scans the bar area. “Speaking of which, what about you, Suga? Anyone new?”

He tautens – Taehyung’s boxy smile floods his mind, as well as the conversation they shared three days ago after his fever broke. He’s still contemplating whether that really was a wise decision or not. “Not really. I like the rules, you see,” Hero hums in acknowledgment as Taeyang grabs a beer from the fridge.

“That’s for the best, probably,” His former boss murmurs, dazed, “Especially after what you’ve been through.”

Of course. Of course, someone would yank that topic to the surface – of course. When he had finally forgotten all about it.

(_“Gloss, so pretty, Gloss, so pretty for me. Just a little more, yeah? Just a little more can’t hurt.”_

_“Gloss, Gloss, Gloss…”_

_“That’s it, just for me, just for me.”)_

“… I’d rather not discuss that here.” He solemnly responds, his thumb stroking the icy edge of his glass of water. “It’s been a while.”

“Sure it has,” Hero bobs his head to the faint beat of the music pumping outside; “Taemin hasn’t updated you about _him_ at all, has he?”

_Him. _Scratchy voice, spiky gelled hair, silk neckties, him. The vivid features of a person that he had stored and covered with the cloaks of his memory – him.

“I don’t want or need updates, Head Escort. He’s ancient news.” Taeyang decides that this is an opportunity to move seats, and shuffles over to the B ward escorts that have just entered. “He’s blacklisted, anyway. Didn’t he transfer to the States two years ago?”

“_Transfer? _Nah, more like… banned, kicked out, yeah? His stepmother wielded more authority than him, wanted the throne for herself, and, well. The scandal happened, she snatched his staff and deported him from the country.” Hero licks the droplets his cocktail from his lips, and the knowing glint in his orbs sends a chilling sensation through Yoongi’s spine. “You should be aware, though, that he’s –“

“Jae,” Taeyang abruptly intervenes (_when the hell did he get here_, is what fleets by his mind), his calloused hand on the crane of Hero’s neck, “That’s not for you to share.” Hero pries off the grip of his coworker with a sour face.

“Maybe you should hang out with your underlings, _Bae_.” Hero smirks, emphasizing the syllable of ‘Bae’. Taeyang groans exasperatedly.

“Don’t call me that, I don’t like its double meaning.”

“I’m certain that you like how your girlfriend moans it better.”

“_Jae._”

“You’re just wrinkly and obsolete, Bae.”

“You’re literally two years older than I am.”

“Young in the heart – the heart is what matters.”

“Uh,” Yoongi interjects their banter, which has the attention successfully garnered on him, “The… the executives. They really… they really don’t care about their employees being in romantic relationships, do they?” Hero and Taeyang stare at him with an ‘are you for real’ demeanor. A tsunami of embarrassment crushes him as he hastily amends, “I- I’m just. I wasn’t… how severe are the restrictions?”

Hero observes him keenly, “I mean,” Taeyang lowers to a nearby chair and allows his friend to do the work, “I’d imagine you’d be well-informed by now, at- what, five years? Ah, well, you and RM – always too uptight, right? Yeah, that can be beneficial in most cases, especially in our industry. But the company policies – those are for show, just prevention measures. Bae, got a cig?” Taeyang shakes his head and Hero relents, turning back to Suga. “It’s fine to breach them as long as you’re not ruining their business, not messing with their money. They don’t outline that for you, but you understand the gist. It becomes an issue when you get exposed on camera, though, like Mino. Remember that hazard? Last year?”

He does, all too well. He had never seen Taemin so distressed, the Head Escorts must’ve had a billion meetings and debates about how to resolve the scandal. The threats of the paparazzi and reporters drove the company to peril and pandemonium – irrelevant escorts from other wards were ordered to stay undercover as well. Mino should’ve been expelled from the company, but it was rumored that Hero played with his connections to keep him. “It was… chaotic.”

“_Chaotic_? What an understatement. It was a nightmare.” Hero shudders and Taeyang hums to concur. “That’s when the company takes action. When you’re a nightmare. When your existence – your value as a product – has no merit to them. That’s your expiry date. As long as you’re valuable to possess in their wallet, they’re willing to permit you to have a relationship or two.”

“That could backfire,” Taeyang butts in suavely, “When you ‘possess’ a wild card like Kim Heechul.”

“Cherry,” Hero chuckles, animated from the mention of the former S ward’s Head Escort, “Nobody _possessed_ Cherry. Nobody could hold him down. When the media threatened him, he beat them to it and confessed that he was dating Lee Teuk before any press could release their articles. He went ahead and did it himself on live television with his boyfriend. We all respect him – because _how_?” The question reverberates in the air clogged with the dizzying scent of alcohol and cacophonous screams. “To clear the mist, Suga, yeah, you’re free to date, fuck, whatever. Your life, your decisions. Just, you have three options. Be subtle, be Mino, or be Kim Heechul.”

Mino – Mino had asked him out of the blue, whether he was brave enough. To Mino, his love had chained him up. He could see it – the man, whomever he lost, was suffering – Mino wasn’t brave enough. He wasn’t ready to let go. It was plain that his love was worth more in the extensive marathon of life, and Yoongi didn’t doubt that Mino saw that as well. But it’s so tremendously unnerving and _scary _– to discard this life, once you attain it. A systematic, bleak life where you lose yourself forever, including your name – but a life nonetheless. A life that pays the bills, a life where everything is monetized, a life that at least ensures that you’re constantly breathing – the life of an escort.

That morning, perhaps he was still slightly hazy, his logical pathways lagging when he kissed Taehyung goodbye. He was afraid – _so_ afraid. He wanted _this_ to be love, although he never comprehended the concept. Twenty-seven years, and he didn’t know what love meant. Taehyung said that he loved ‘Suga’ – never directly, but there were heavy undertones. Right then, he didn’t consider the consequences of his choices – he accepted. He accepted Taehyung into his circle, albeit just by the border. Was he brave? He wasn’t sure. But he was trying.

“Gah, I envy him.” Hero grunts, “I think he actually has a stable employment status now. He’s the manager at this classy café that Teuk owns. He’s healthy and happy, disgustingly so.”

“You visited him?” Yoongi inquires, astonished. Hero eyes him quizzically.

“Of course – we’re friends.” Then, “Just because he’s out of the picture doesn’t mean he’s out of _my _picture. Besides, we’re all bound to leave this place someday. They let you stick around till forty or something, but do you really want that?”

“I… I guess not.”

“Exactly. Don’t be so anxious about departure, Suga.” Hero murmurs distantly, “We all leave. It’s just cooler if it’s from your judgment.”

“I –“

“Hey,” He yelps at the interjection of another voice – when he whips around, there’s Taemin, his navy blue dress shirt disheveled and his belt half-undone. The sultry smudge of purple lipstick on his cheekbone and the translucent stains that paint his neckline just right serve as a reminder for how Taemin became the youngest Head Escort of BigHit’s history since its establishment – ‘he’s born for this,’ someone once said. “Are you torturing my dear escort?” Taemin puts a lukewarm hand on his forearm, in which Yoongi snorts but doesn’t pull away from.

“We were offering a piece of our wisdom,” Hero replies, “but well, Suga’s astute. He understands.”

“… I do?”

“Sure. Hey, Bae, let’s join the dance floor.”

“What? I don’t want to.”

“C’mon, the newbies never heard you sing. Everyone deserves something good in their lives.”

Taeyang mutters inaudibly under his breath, but tags along anyway. Taemin supplants his position and orders his usual – a Margarita. “Was Hero-hyung being a nuisance? He does that occasionally, especially when he’s tipsy.”

“I’m used to it. Was under him before you, remember?”

“Yeah, figures.” Taemin thanks the bartender for his Margarita and sighs into the glass, “There’s nothing like an excellent Margarita. And you’re drinking- ugh, water? God, you’re so boring. You’re like my boyfriend.”

Yoongi frowns. “Who is it, really? Your actor boyfriend?”

“Actor-slash-model. Hyungsik. Park Hyungsik.” Taemin beams dreamily, the corners of his eyes softening as he buries his head into his arms on the counter. “God, he’s an angel. I’m so fucking blessed.” Yoongi’s jaw drops a little. _Park Hyungsik?_ The dude that was the sensation of South Korea in that one drama where he ended up dating some strong ass Super Saiyan girl, that Park Hyungsik? _That _was Taemin’s flower fetish boyfriend? Didn’t Taehyung talk about him once – he must’ve, definitely. His boss’ boyfriend was his potential-maybe-not boyfriend’s friend? _That’s weird. _“He buys me flowers, Yoongi, flowers.”

“Yeah, got the memo from day one. Also, please refrain from referring to me by my real name.”

Taemin harrumphs and flings his hand flippantly, “I don’t care, I don’t care. We’re technically not in office anymore, who cares?”

Yoongi exhales resignedly. “Okay, continue.”

“I’m happy.” Taemin pauses, “Wow, it’s funny once you admit it. I’m, I’m happy. Like, a lot.” He giggles to himself, and Yoongi is momentarily convinced that he’s gone insane from an overdose of some drug. “He buys me flowers and there’s always a message for each blossom. Lavenders for devotion, lilacs for love and passion, stuff like that. He holds my hand – sometimes that’s all we do. We hold hands and ramble about our day, mine normally more hectic than his. You’d expect it to be childish ‘cause how we are in this field, but it makes you feel desired, you know? Like someone’s not around because they want your service, but just you. They want you as a person, not a commodity. He, he makes me happy.”

And true to his word, Taemin is glowing. Yoongi doesn’t have the heart to mock him about how mushy and corny he is, because Taemin is so genuinely _happy. _So he merely nods, gulping his water once more.

“I just needed to, I don’t know, remove that from my weight of, of everything. I haven’t told anyone about Hyungsik.” Taemin glances at him sideways, “You should be honored, yeah?”

“Hah.”

“Well, even if you aren’t. But I had my turn – now it’s yours.”

“What?”

“Please, Yoongi.” Taemin smirks snidely, “_I _gave you that number.”

_Oh, right. That somehow completely flew past me. _“You’re a motherfucker.”

Taemin shrugs. “I wouldn’t disagree. Drastic measures for drastic circumstances, right? I was apprehensive about you being a bachelor for the rest of your miserable life and expedited the process for you, you’re very much welcome.”

“Bach- there’s RM, there are numerous others –“

“Oh, hush. RM isn’t as guarded as you are. Cautious, yes. But he advances. You, on the other hand, backtrack.” Yoongi doesn’t have an argument for that one. “Don’t you dare tell me that you wasted the chance. Our friendship is over if you say that.”

“I wasn’t aware that this relationship of backstabbing and fraud was labeled as friendship,” Returns Yoongi sarcastically, but he grumbles, “He took care of me until the next morning.”

“So, the doting type. Suitable for you.”

“Uh huh.”

“No, really. You don’t know how to look after yourself, Min.” Yoongi shoots him daggers, in which Taemin ignores. “Well, that’s it? You guys aren’t dating?”

“We’re on a trial period.”

“A- wow, _okay_,” Taemin hacks on his Margarita, “Should’ve seen that coming. You’re too timid for boldness, I almost forgot. Bless Kim Taehyung’s patience.”

“I still don’t know if I should just let this happen,” Yoongi sighs contemplatively, swirling his finger on the rim of the glass, “I mean, he’s the one I want. I’m past that stage – I understand that now. He says the right things, does the right things, and he’s, he’s _right _for me. But,” He tugs at the tangled locks of his hair, “But what if I’m not right for him? It’s not just in terms of my occupation, but just, just _me_. Sure, I’m terrified of losing what I have. If I leave, I wouldn’t have anything. What if then, he changes his mind and decides that we don’t fit?”

Taemin makes a noncommittal noise, “That’s a possibility. But you’ll never know that until you actually try, Yoongi. Besides, you still have many things after you leave. I’ll be here, RM will be here – you have others with you.” He glimpses at Yoongi once and scratches his head, “Ah, fuck, this is cringy. I hate it.”

“You started it.”

“I know, I know, this wasn’t even my initial purpose. It was something else that I have to tell you,” Taemin rubs his cheek and stirs his drink, “You won’t freak out, right?”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, true.” Taemin averts his gaze and stares at the dent in the wall, “Choi Kiho is in Korea.”

His blood runs cold.

His heart pounds within, his mind whitens, his jaw clicks, and those five words resonate in him. _Choi Kiho is in Korea. _

“Don’t,” He spits venomously, his knuckles the color of December and that cursed man’s bedsheets, “Don’t even fucking _joke_ about that, Taemin.” Taemin is still staring at the dent. “_Taemin_, fuck, tell me you’re kidding.”

_(His nails crept over his Adam’s apple, tracing out undecipherable alphabets, piercing into his skin, pressuring his windpipe. _

_“Stop,” He urged, masking his unease. “You don’t have to.”_

_“Shh,” Kiho’s thumb dug into his throat, “It’s alright. I got you.”)_

“His stepmother had an affair,” Taemin enunciates, not looking at him, “And your scandal was trivialized afterward, apparently. Just a casual fling, youth’s hormones, all that. The Head Escorts and the executives had a meeting yesterday about it. He’s a blacklisted member, and he won’t be able to submit any requests. It’s not just about you, though – he’s a sketchy figure in general. Must be avoided at all costs.”

His tongue grazes his teeth inside his mouth. “Does he know where I live?”

“It’s a matter of time, even if he doesn’t,” Taemin responds, “You know how he is. You know the best amongst all of us.”

He probably does. As much as he wants to refute the notion, he probably does know the best.

“I’ll be honest, we can’t protect you from him twenty-four-seven. And the executives made it crystal that they wanted nothing to do with him – he’s too influential. They don’t want your problems to endanger the company. Hero and I, we, we’ll do everything we can. It’s our priority to protect our escorts. But we’re not unbreakable – there’ll be holes. And when we’re penetrated, you need to have someone reliable that you can trust.” Taemin finally faces him, “Is it Kim Taehyung?”

He can’t think.

Shit, shit, shit.

“He can’t know.” He breathes shakily, “He can’t be involved, he’s- he’s a _model, _Taemin, his image – I can’t ruin his image.”

“Stop fussing over others for once.” Taemin snaps, “Is it Kim Taehyung? Can I entrust you with him?”

Yoongi closes his eyes, quivering, his fingers caressing his neck.

He doesn’t answer.

***

“Nervous?”

“Huh?”

“Are you nervous?” Leejung questions gently, his palm on Seokjin’s thigh. It’s sweaty. “You’ve been quiet the entire ride.”

“Oh,” Seokjin blinks. “I’ve been distracted nowadays.”

“Mm,” His fiancé draws circles on his thigh, and it takes all his determination to not scoot away. They’re both making an effort and that’s what matters. “How was the orphanage?”

“Normal.” Seokjin tersely replies, not particularly eager to partake in the conversation. The gray buildings and the polluted, orange-tinted sky of Seoul are oddly captivating now, as they’re stuck in traffic with another half-hour to their destination. He can sense Leejung bristle at his uncharacteristically standoffish behavior, and reluctantly adds, “How’s your new smart TV project going?”

“Oh, wonderful. We’re conducting a couple of test runs – it’s in the final stage. We just have to modify some features.”

“Nice.”

“How’s Taehyung? Sojung was squealing over something about him. He’s one of the main cast members for the webtoon-production drama, isn’t he?”

“Actually,” Seokjin flashes a tight smile, “It’s a new program. TVN comedy.”

“Oh.” The man retracts his hand, god-fucking-yes. “Well, that’s great.”

“Yeah.”

“Does he have a boyfriend? He brought someone over to the social meet, didn’t he?”

“How would _you_ know?” Seokjin gripes, his content façade cracking, “You weren’t there.”

Leejung tongues his cheek. “Are you still on that? I thought we were past that stage, Seokjin.”

“You never even,” _You never even apologized, _is what almost slips, but Seokjin clamps his mouth together because Leejung’s response is foreseeable. ‘I did, I said ‘sorry’ over text,’ is what he’d contend. ‘Sorry’ over text. Seokjin would rather not elaborate on how despicable that is. “Forget it. And for the record, whether my brother has a boyfriend, a girlfriend, whatever, you don’t need to meddle with it.”

“Meddle? I can’t even _ask_ about him? He’s my family now too, Seokjin.”

“Maybe you would be more rapt if you really did regard him as family, Leejung.”

“Why are you being so difficult?” Leejung raises his volume, and Seokjin massages his temples. “Sure, I get confused over Taehyung’s news every now and then, I have been a little harsh lately, but you’re being unfair. For that social meet, too – I apologized, didn’t I? Fuck, you should be –“ He sucks in a stuttered breath and halts. Gritting his teeth, he continues, “Look, Seokjin, can’t you see that I’m trying?”

_Trying? _He almost snuffles – that has to be the wittiest thing he heard all week, and also the most bullshit anyone ever told him in less than ten words. Trying? Coming home late night after night, texting Seokjin that he’d be back by eight and sluggishly unlocking their door at one in the morning – trying? Never listening to Seokjin’s favors and preferences, disappointed when Seokjin doesn’t recall _his – _trying? Not boasting or anything, but Seokjin could blabber on about Leejung’s mother’s prized luxury brands from the top of his head. Leejung still mixes up whether Seokjin likes pink or green (it’s pink).

So, basically, unless the definition of ‘trying’ had undergone a revolution in the past hour, Seokjin had no idea that Leejung was _trying. _

_“It’s just dinner, Jin,_” He can hear Hoseok in the distance, _“I believe in you.”_

What would he do without Hoseok, really?

“… Listen, can we just, _not_?” He thinks of blue skies and alpacas, of beefsteak and lobsters, of Jungkook’s rare bunny smiles and Jimin’s tiny hands, the precious parts of his life that delight him. He thinks of Taehyung, his beloved brother. That’s right, Taehyung – it was either Seokjin or Taehyung. Better him than his brother, who had so much stripped from him since his childhood.

He thinks of RM.

Which totally doesn’t make sense, since they only fought and bantered when they met. But RM, he – he had this supernatural ability: to unravel a human named Kim Seokjin. In front of the escort, Seokjin didn’t have to ponder over his social rank or calculated speech; he was just Seokjin. RM had seen Seokjin only at his worst, a little better than worst, and then worse again. And yet, the escort had always approached him first. He connected the dots between hanging topics and never dug deeper than what seemed necessary. He never pried into the complicated matters of the Kims or Seokjin’s fiancé, or even Seokjin’s personal life at all.

He’s pleasant.

His dimples are kind of cute, too.

“You lit the fire,” Leejung twists to the window and Seokjin can’t be more relieved. All exchanges cease between them, and the awkward, bubbling tension looms above them. What would his friends say, if they saw him now? Taehyung had always been against the arranged marriage, along with Jimin’s fervent ‘flips table’ gesture and, ‘_hyung, you’re losing a few screws, aren’t you? That’s what it is!’ _Jungkook was stoic as ever, but Seokjin noticed the skepticism in his round eyes. He never verbalized his disaccord, but his whole muscular body was emitting the message. Hoseok had been the only one that beamed, _“As long as you’re happy, hyung. That’s the critical factor.”_

_Is he happy?_

His stomach lurches.

The driver stomps on the brakes as they arrive. It’s a traditional Korean restaurant that only accepts reservations, ten per day. While Seokjin’s motto is to savor all food, respect all food, and devour all food scrumptiously, he has a hunch that he’d have to break his own rules today. When he steps out of the car, he extends his hand to Leejung, who glowers at him fiercely. “What?”

“Your mother was admitted to SNU’s hospital last week for two days due to a migraine. The doctor deduced that it must be from her atypically high stress levels after the recent death of her husband. Do you really want our petty altercation and shitty mood to exacerbate her condition? And you owe me an apology for not informing me that your mother decided to come instead of your relatives until yesterday.” Leejung seems taken aback by his reasoning, and his expressions flicker between annoyance and bewilderment. He intertwines his fingers in Seokjin’s after three seconds, though.

“It’s technically on you,” Leejung murmurs petulantly, and Seokjin almost tears his hand away in defeat. They stroll into the restaurant, hands clasped so sturdily that it impedes his blood circulation. Leejung’s mother reserved a room in the corner so that their discussion could occur in a more private setting – the mother’s thoughtfulness was not transmitted genetically, Seokjin laments.

A waiter slides the checkered door open – inside, everything is laid out and ready for them, and Seokjin’s parents are on the right, with Leejung’s mother alone on the left. Seokjin bows and squirms out of their forced handholding. “How have you been, _Eomeonim_? I’m so sorry I couldn’t visit you during your stay at the hospital – I was swarmed with papers and meetings.”

Leejung’s mother, Hwang Hyesook, chortles with her high-pitched tone, “No, no. No woman wants a handsome man to see her without makeup and proper baths, so I’m rather thankful.” Seokjin catches that she has purchased a new ruby necklace and Louis Vuitton purse – her gown is adorned with golden lace and glitter, and her kill-heels are bloody red. She’s… well, she has character. Leejung slumps next to his mother and Seokjin shifts over to his as well.

“How did your volunteering go, Seokjin-ah?” Kim-Woo Yejin, his mother, combs his styled hair with her thickly painted nails wearing her sickly sweet smile. “I called Jungkook, but you know how stiff that boy is. I wonder if he’d loosen up with a girlfriend – has he ever dated?” There she goes again, snooping into everyone’s business. Seokjin, for the umpteenth time, corrects his mother.

“Jungkook is gay, mother. He came out to you last year.”

“I,” Yejin’s fake lashes travel north, south, and then flutter, puzzled. “Right, of course. He’s just so… masculine. Not a very gay image, you should understand.” One’s sexuality and degree of masculinity don’t have a correlation, Seokjin almost blurts out in ire. Being around his family never serves well for his health and anger management. “I just, all your friends are not normal, aren’t they? I wonder if it’s Hoseok or Taehyung’s influence; they were always… well, deviant.”

He maintains his composure, “Homosexuality isn’t contagious, mother, and it’s very normal.” Damn, he’s chewing on a chopstick-full of spinach and it tastes like cardboard, what even.

“At least Hoseok triumphs in his profession,” His father speaks gruffly, “What is your dancer friend doing nowadays? It’s a miracle to spot him on the headlines.”

“He has a name – it’s Park Jimin. And he’s a world-class contemporary dancer; he’s got a solo for one of the most competitive showcases this year. I don’t think you’d know from solely reading the politics and economy columns.” Seokjin rejoins pointedly. Jimin was so delighted about his accomplishment, leaping over Seokjin’s furniture and screaming when he received the email. He was not about to let someone squash his friend’s glory, just like that. Not even his father. _Especially_ not his father.

“That’s not very respectful of you, Seokjin, your father was just –“

“Yejin, it’s fine.” His father debones the grilled yellowtail with a refined ‘clink’ of his chopsticks. “He must be on his rebellious streak once more. We have more crucial subjects to move onto this dinner.”

By his so-called ‘rebellious streak’, his father was referring that _one time _in high school where he broke out of home with his friends at midnight to devour all the Seven-Eleven products. Rebellious, oh, yes. How scandalous of him.

Yejin nods ruefully, tucking a strand of her curled hair behind her ear. “Of course, more crucial subjects. Dear, my old age – it’s an impediment to my memory.”

Seokjin narrows his brows at Leejung, scrunching his nose to communicate, ‘_what are they talking about?’_ His fiancé merely shrugs and pops another pork belly into his mouth.

“So, Seokjin, how’s are you faring with Leejung?” Seokhoon queries grimly, golden chopsticks held in his hand like a spear. “My son is a little feisty, isn’t he, Leejung? You’ll have to bear with him, please.”

“Oh, no, not at all sir.” Leejung denies half-heartedly, his expression polite but somewhat satisfied. “Jin is wonderful to me. My friends tell me how arranged marriage is outdated, but I truly think that Seokjin and I are very compatible. Aren’t we, Jin?” His partner flashes a strained smile, and Seokjin has to gulp down a guffaw for his awful acting skills.

“Of course, Leejungie.”

Seokhoon hums. “Good, good. And the apartment, is it to your liking?” _It’s been a year since we’ve lived there and you could’ve asked earlier into the arrangement, but, _Seokjin keeps the snark to himself.

“It’s exquisite, sir. The flooring is especially well done, and your jade vase is kept in our living room.”

The vase that now had a thick blanket of dust atop its surface because they hardly touched it? Must be that one.

“Oh, that customary gift? I could acquire thousands of the same kind.” Of course he could, with his money rotting under his bed.

“So, father, regarding this ‘crucial subject’?” Seokjin interjects finally, fed up with all these tentative leading questions that seemed to be amounting to nothing. He doesn’t want to waste more of his hours in this stuffy restaurant, more or less breathing the same air as his parents. Seokhoon squints at him, obviously peeved for being interrupted, but lowers his cutlery to the table.

“He inherits your impatience, Yejin,” Seokhoon clucks his tongue.

“I won’t deny it.”

“But yes, let’s get straight to the point, shall we?” God, yes, please. “So, your mother and I, as well as Hyesook-ssi over here, have been discussing your wedding.”

Oh.

Wedding.

Right.

Seokjin had not seen that coming.

“You’re twenty-eight now, Seokjin. Still young, of course, I understand. But this is a step you’ll have to climb eventually, and we concluded that we wanted this over with – the sooner, the better. The date doesn’t matter, does it? That’s the benefit of same-sex marriage, after all – there’s no concern about children, departure from your career due to pregnancy – it’s quite convenient.”

A freezing sensation pools in his gut, glaciating his insides, the chill venturing through his veins and blood, as he perceives his father’s words.

“It’s June now, and we planned the wedding for December initially, but after thorough debate, we are expediting the process and now the date is fixed for September, right around Chuseok. It’ll be a celebration – absolutely ideal, don’t you agree?”

September.

That’s only three months away.

_Three months?_

_Wedding?_

Something in him begins to crack.

“Imagine, Seokjin!” His mother places a graceful hand on his shoulder, enthusiastic, “It’ll be the news of the century. An icon for homosexuality and the LGBT community of Korea, right? Isn’t that what you wanted? It’ll also benefit the company’s image, especially now that our country is accommodating to more liberal beliefs and western culture – you know how the younger market is all for that.”

The company’s image? Support for the LGBT community of Korea? For a more liberal nation?

_Where am I in all of this?_

His breathing becomes shallow and shortened, sweat trickling from his forehead. “Mother, I,” He tongues his cheek, “I don’t know, I think this is too fast – I want more time to adjust and, the company’s bustling with new opportunities right now and –“

“Some sacrifices can be made for a greater opportunity, Seokjin. You are at that crossroad.” Seokhoon cuts him off, and the panic builds in Seokjin’s chest. He was aware that this had to happen, that this would unfold in the future, but now? Why does it have to be now, of all times? He’s been better nowadays, after immersing himself in work and visiting the orphanage and settling his fight with RM –

His heart thumps.

(If it were he and not Leejung, would it be different?)

“Sounds perfect to me, sir.” Leejung beams approvingly, and Seokjin regards him in disbelief. Hadn’t they been after each other’s throats a mere half an hour ago?

Does he really believe that this arrangement is still going to work?

But Seokjin can’t verbalize his emotions or thoughts. Since when did he have the right, the privilege to do so, in his own home? He should’ve objected if he desired so, such as when his father imposed his education of business on him as a teenager, when all Seokjin wanted to do was cook in a kitchen and discover the colorful world of cuisines and food, or when his mother subtly chastised Hoseok for his filthy attire, or when his parents accepted his sexuality as a form of convenience and fragility. He should’ve flown from this cage before this catastrophe occurred – when the door was unlocked.

Now, it’s not.

He is mute throughout the rest of supper, and just bows and mumbles a phrase of farewell afterward. When he and Leejung aboard the car, he is still quiet, his mind white as a sheet. When he does regain his consciousness, all he can whisper is,

“Did you know?”

Leejung glances at him, puzzled. “About?”

“The wedding.”

The other averts his attention to the window, once again. “I’m not clairvoyant, Seokjin. I didn’t know.”

_Then how? _How could he be so accepting, so resigned about the whole matter? Marriage was binding – it could symbolize eternal love for others, but what is marriage without love? It’s just eternal. Eternally chained to a contract – that’s what it is. He most likely wouldn’t be able to file for a divorce after it was sealed, too – the company’s reputation, his family name, his duty as a Kim is an iron wall that stands between him and that alternative.

“Do you,” He blinks away the wetness that brims in his eyes, “Do you love me, Leejung?”

Leejung swerves towards him, his face unreadable and passive.

“Do _you_, Seokjin?”

No.

_No, he doesn’t. _

He doesn’t love Leejung.

He never would.

(_“All I wanted was to be loved by someone – someone that didn’t care about my status, my money, my identity as a Kim – I just wanted to love. I wasn’t born into this world by my will, I didn’t suddenly transform into a homosexual man because I wanted to, I wasn’t able to choose my parents, my career, my school, nothing. I thought I could at least love you by choice, so,” He choked and coughed, his mouth salty from the tears that slipped in. “So can you stay? You’re the only choice I made myself. You’re- you’re the only proof I have, that I’m my own person. Please, can you stay, please –“_

_“Listen, Seokjin. Jin-ah.” A warm hand was on his arm, clasping it gently. “You were always your own person. You’re strong, you’re beautiful, and I didn’t regret being in a relationship with you. But we just, we just don’t fit, Seokjin. You want me to relinquish my job for you, and I can’t do that. I wasn’t born into a rich family with a silver spoon in my mouth. I need this, and I can’t abandon it for you. I love you, but not to that extent.” _

_“I don’t even know your name,” Seokjin sobbed, his cheeks soaked and his hands slippery, “It’s been over a year, and I don’t even know your name.”_

_“Exactly.” He smiled at him dejectedly. “I love you. But you erred, Seokjin – you made the wrong choice. You chose the worst person to love – a person with the worst career. An escort.”)_

When he’s secure in the solitude of his bedroom, he locks the door and drops to the mattress. Before he registers his actions, he’s dialing Hoseok’s number frantically.

_One ring, two rings, three-_

“_Hello, Jin?_”

“Seok-ah, fuck, Seok-ah –“

“_Holy- crap, Jin, are you alright? Where are you?”_

“Home. I’m home, but Seok-ah, you have, you have to listen to me –“

“_I’m listening, I’m listening, okay? You have to breathe first, though. Can you breathe with me, Jin-hyung? Inhale for one, two, three…” _Seokjin obeys the guiding exercises of Hoseok, and the black dots that once swarmed his vision clear. _“Okay, you’re doing great. Now, do you think you can tell me what happened?”_

“I’m,” He sucks in another hasty breath, “I’m getting married.”

There’s momentary silence on the other line. _“Alright.”_

“The wedding will be during Chuseok. This September, three months from now.”

_“Go on.”_

“I don’t want it.” Seokjin mumbles flatly, rubbing at his eyelids, “I don’t want to get married, Hoseok. It’s stupid and irrational and eons late, I know – I should’ve refuted the offer last year. I didn’t really want it then, but it didn’t really hit me till now – I, I don’t want this, Hoseok-ah, I really don’t want this. Jesus, I sound like a brat, don’t I? Sorry, I always dash to you whenever I’m a wreck, god, I’m so sorry –“

_“Jin? Can I ask you something?”_

He exhales. “Yeah, of course, Seok-ah. Always.”

_“What do you want me to do?”_

Static – that’s how he is, upon heeding Hoseok’s inquiry.

“What?”

_“You heard me, hyung. What do you want me to do for you?” _

(_“I’ll never leave you, Jin. Kim or not, I’ll never leave you. Your name never mattered. You’re always going to be Jin to me, my Jin, our Jin.”_)

What did he do to deserve Jung Hoseok as his best friend and family?

“Help me, Seok-ah.” He beseeches groggily, tears flowing down his porcelain face, “Please help me get out of this shit.”

_“I’m on it.”_

***

Kim Namjoon is a Virgo.

Very random fact, yes, he’s aware.

He also doesn’t believe in the mythical and rather fantastical zodiac theories and predictions. The stars are complex, but the sheer diversity and unimaginable variety of the human population simply couldn’t be generalized into twelve categories of broad personality types. It only took some dexterous handling of the Barnum effect and others to hook people into trusting such information.

However, that particular morning, he feels like watching the zodiac morning forecast. It’s just one of those incomprehensible moments; where you suddenly crave a dish you’d usually shy away from or the scarce occasions where Yoongi would text him with sappy midnight messages of how Namjoon is valuable as a person and should exploit his talents for something better. Namjoon doesn’t think as he switches the channel, and a woman in a purple veil pops up on the monitor, waving a stick around in the air as she points at a large chart projected behind her.

**_“Libras should expect a pleasant surprise today! Perhaps, a potential love interest may appear? Look out for that person in a necktie!” _**He rolls his eyes – there must be at least three million people out there that are wearing a necktie. Yes, Libras, grab a random salaryman on the street and claim them as your love interest. Fantastic advice.

** _“Listen up, Virgos, it’s a critical day for you!”_ **

** **

Namjoon flinches at her booming voice, and the way she madly waves her stick-wand at the camera almost induces him to revert to the morning news channel that he was indulging in.

** _“Today, you’ll have to make a life-changing choice – very, very, important. Depending on what you select, you might have to face the wrath of fate or be gifted with eternal luxury! Follow your heart, and you’ll see the path.” _ **

** **

_She’s probably hinting at the fact that I’m about to begin a new job. It’s either a billionaire client that wants to buy me a meal afterward, or a crying mom that wants her divorced husband back in her arms. Great. _

He turns off his TV with a disenchanted huff and snatches his keys from the kitchen counter. Taemin loved picking all the weird files for him – Namjoon had been the only one in the company who had to cosplay as a koala three times on an assignment. He judged them to be more facile than having to dine with all the economic superpowers of Korea like Yoongi, anyway.

The sky is dusty orange outside due to the polluted air, and Namjoon can almost smell the particulates tickling his nostrils. It’s a striking reminder for him to actually purchase a mask if he wants to live a few more years without dying over some conspicuous lung disease.

The company’s lobby is uncharacteristically vacant – typical scenery after a company dinner. Most of the escorts were either too hungover or fucked over to work and used the last of their stocked holidays to flee their duties. The ones that did come, like Namjoon, were the escorts that had better self-control, such as Leo and D.O, who arrived at the building like clockwork.

“Everyone’s out again, aren’t they?” Namjoon chuckles as he plops on the sofa next to D.O, The B ward escort, solemn and stoic as ever, nods. D.O had been at BigHit for a year longer than Namjoon and was extremely popular amongst both clients and escorts for his especially ominous and enigmatic aura. After four conversations and two company dinners, Namjoon realized that the man was a gigantic softie, and was merely clumsy with expression. They developed a dynamic now, with Namjoon steering the conversation more than half the time. “I heard that U-Kwon puked all over Head Escort Taeyang’s crotch.”

D.O’s smile quirks, “I was there. Quite a sight.”

“I can imagine. That guy was on his seventh soju when I went in, so.” U-Kwon was a faithful party spirit and prime escort material, but his alcohol consumption had no bounds. Namjoon worries for his liver every now and then. “How’s life going for you?”

“Ordinary. Kai is, well,” D.O sighs lightly, “He is… unique. He traces my steps.”

Namjoon whistles, entertained. “He’s still after you? Hasn’t he been lusting for like, years? That’s true love, brother.”

“It’s tiresome,” D.O states bluntly, but with a pinch of fondness. Namjoon thinks it’s a good look on him – D.O, like he and Yoongi, was one of the more uptight escorts that strictly adhered to company policy to avoid conflicts and other altercations. Kai and D.O were matched well for each other, as were Baekhyun and Chanyeol (everyone already forgot their escort aliases by now). “How about you? I heard you went to volunteer.”

“Ah, yeah, at an orphanage. It wasn’t as horrifying as I anticipated. I slept with the heir of Kim Collective.”

“You _slept _with him?”

“What? No, _no_. God, he’d probably slaughter me if I do so much as to touch him. We were physically together in the same atmosphere, our butts in contact with the same mattress.”

D.O makes a noncommittal noise, “And he hates you.”

“I don’t know, actually. I’m just so fucking confused.” Namjoon admits bitterly. Kim Seokjin seemed to be the kind of man that could go from peeling your apples to peeling your skin in one second.

“Well, is he cute?”

“I mean, yeah. Really handsome. What if Aphrodite and the Seven Wonders had a love child, and there you have him.”

“Then it’ll come along.”

“Wow, what’s the mathematics in that?”

“Hot guys rarely go wrong.”

Namjoon gapes at his friend. “Who are you and what have you done to D.O?”

D.O smirks and rises from his seat. “Just don’t get slaughtered, RM. I’ll be cheering for you.”

“Cheering me for _what_?” He stammers, but D.O only flicks his wrist dismissively as he trudges off. Namjoon squints at the escort’s destination, and there stands Kai, his brows furrowed adorably whilst scrolling through the screen of his phone. He snorts as loudly as possible, hoping that it reaches D.O down the hallway. If anyone ever dared to argue that there was indeed a tree that could never be cut after ten strikes, Namjoon would redirect them to D.O and Kai. Kai’s pining tactics were obviously having some kind of effect on _the _impenetrable D.O.

_No, but seriously, cheering me for what?_

“RM? Taemin is requesting your presence.” Secretary Park chirps from behind, and Namjoon tersely nods, scrambling to his feet and almost tripping over another extension cord in the process.

Taemin is green. Not figuratively, either. It is a stark contrast from the bouquet of fresh violets on his desk, arranged beautifully in lace and colorful decoration paper. Namjoon drags out the stool as quietly as possible – he had seen Taemin explode once, and it was not pretty.

“Should you really be at work?” He queries warily and Taemin glimpses at him from his leather chair.

“Do I look that awful?” The escort nods. “God, I should’ve listened to Suga’s advice. My alcohol tolerance is waning nowadays.” He fumbles for the files and they scatter across the wooden surface pathetically. “Sorry. The world is spinning right now.”

“No problem.” Namjoon gathers the portfolios into a neat pile and commences his selection. The turquoise file has a request from a seventy-year-old Chinese billionaire fluent in Korean. His pupils dilate instantly upon counting the zeros in the payment offered, and his jaw almost collides with the floor as he scans the request box. “_Pole dancing?_” Taemin groans, assenting. “Head Escort, you _know _I can’t dance.”

“Go on.”

He does. In the additional comments box, in fine print, says, _‘even better if they’re a horrendous dancer.’_

“I don’t get Chinese billionaires.”

“What a coincidence, me neither.”

He decides that one’s dead last on his list and pulls out the papers from the lavender file. This assignment is more subdued, just a classic fake date from a thirsty college student that wanted to appear not-single but was too timid to fuck a person upon their first encounter. Namjoon could deal with that.

The last file is pink. Hot pink. He wonders how many varieties of this file brand the company possesses.

(**_“Today, you’ll have to make a life-changing choice – very, very, important.”_**)

_Kim Seokjin. _

Namjoon’s heartbeat ceases.

He inhales a stale breath and shakes his head rapidly. Right, his alcohol tolerance was shit too, and he must be hungover as well. That had to be it.

“It’s Kim Seokjin, yes, you’ve seen it correctly the first time.” Taemin drones groggily, and Namjoon wants to cry.

Maybe it’s not actually _the _Kim Seokjin. There had to be two hundred Kim Namjoons out there as well.

“It’s Kim Collective’s heir, Kim Seokjin, yes, RM. I even stapled his picture to the back of papers.”

Jesus Christ, there is a fucking picture.

For better or worse, Seokjin looks really handsome in the photo. As always.

“Okay.” He steadies his mind and continues reading. Although he already knows Seokjin’s basic information after his detailed Wikipedia search, he lingers on every single alphabet to delay his arrival at the request box. He processes Taemin’s whining about how he’s taking twenty years and another ten, but that’s the least of his concerns at the moment.

He wets his bottom lip before reading the request.

_Okay, go. _

**[Will you be my boyfriend?]**

Namjoon stares.

Taemin stares at him too. “Well? The million dollars go to?”

Namjoon doesn’t even process the words that blast out of his mouth.

“Kim Seokjin.”

“Ding, ding, ding, congratulations.”

_Oh my god, what have I done. _


	12. Past to Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yoongi's trauma and Namjoon's resolve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, I wasn't TOO late. Hectic week, everyone, really. 
> 
> But we have reached 60+ comments and 125 kudos! An incredible achievement, and it's all because of you guys :D (Also who is fangirling over MMA and MAMA cuz wth man)
> 
> This chapter also has a ton of flashbacks, which I apologize for (I don't know how many of you actually enjoy these lengthy flashbacks but you know). I think it certainly adds to the plot, though, with Yoongi's past mostly revealed and finally, an explanation as to why Namjoon cannot stop himself from helping Seokjin or people in need. But hey, we're finally around halfway done! 
> 
> The next update will also most likely be late (oops) but that's because I have my mid-terms that week. I go into break after that, though, so updates should be back to normal afterward. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter!
> 
> ALSO HAPPY BIRTHDAY KIM SEOKJIN I LOVE YOU <333

_He met Choi Kiho with an escort and client relationship. _

_Sex at Silla Hotel, fishnet stockings, bondage kink, and a million won. _

_Nothing out of the ordinary, just another assignment where Yoongi would have to wear the company-provided fishnet stockings under his dress pants. He wasn’t a fan, but he had to pay his rent, and that was that. _

_They held their meeting in Yoongi’s usual office, Kiho in his business wear and tousled hair. Had his nose been slightly pointer, he would’ve passed as Yoongi’s type, but unfortunately, the guy was too sharp for his tastes. He didn’t really ruminate much over this fact, however, when he slid his profile over to the man. _

_“My safe word and red list.” He explained tersely, as Kiho scanned the paper. _

_“Asphyxiation?” _

_“Negatively associated memories,” Yoongi shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m fine with everything else, unless you decide to try something new and I conclude on the spot that I don’t like it. You won’t necessarily be blacklisted if that occurs, but you’re asked to refrain from continuing your act once I say my safe word.” _

_Kiho nodded firmly. “Got it.”_

_“When are you free?”_

_“Friday.”_

_“I’ll meet you at the hotel, then.”_

_Simple. Easy. No strings attached. _

_Just another job. _

_The sex was good. Not extraordinary, not intolerable, but better than average. Yoongi had people that would just awkwardly nip his butt cheek for hours or fondle with his toes as they combed his hair with their nails. It’s a pain because he’s supposed to look like he’s having the time of his life. In which, well, ninety-percent of the time, he wasn’t, and therefore a pain. Some escorts were more fortunate, like N, who somehow clicked sexually with almost all his clients. Yoongi had not been as lucky. _

_But Kiho was good. _

_Good, as in the sex was quick and to the point. Kiho knew exactly what he wanted, how he wanted it, and Yoongi just had to obey the manual. Wear the stockings, clasp the silk, eat a dildo, and fuck. Fifteen minutes for one million. Twenty minutes, tops. It was a sweet deal. Kiho didn’t cuddle like some other men, didn’t ask for kisses in between, and didn’t leave any visible marks. Once they had both released, he panted on his side for around forty seconds, and then wordlessly walked into the shower, Yoongi drenched in cold sweat on the sheets. _

_He preferred it that way. It demarcated their relationship and left no room for alternate interpretations. Client and Escort – that’s all they were. Kiho would always step out of the steaming shower stall fully clothed, his hair damp and dress shirt moist. “The room’s yours until seven,” he’d murmur, retrieving his belongings and shutting the door behind him. _

_It became a routine. Although clients couldn’t select their escorts, Kiho made it clear that he was requesting for Gloss. Yoongi never hesitated – the choice seemed obvious. Hero had crooked his head at him, his tone wary. “Don’t make it a habit, Gloss.”_

_He had snorted defiantly, confirming his decision as he signed the papers. “It’s not like we’re emotionally syncing.” _

_“I don’t mean it like that.” Hero sighed, “Do you really think ‘dating’ is the only issue to be considered?” _

_“I’m not a dealer, Head Escort, I’m not involved in any dangerous business.”_

_“Just think about it.” Shaking his head, Hero dismissed him from the office. “I’m not stopping you.”_

_He should’ve listened. Head Escorts were in authoritative positions for a reason – because they knew the industry best. They knew the behavioral patterns of the people, the underground works, and most of all, had been stuck in such circumstances. One distinguishing quality of the Head Escorts, however, was that they survived those predicaments, and had the iron mentality to continue as an escort. _

_Yoongi ran away. _

_He was too thickheaded to realize. The fingers that traced his torso, circling his abdomen, palming his dick, gradually journeying up his chest, stroking his arms, edging towards his collarbone. He had become absorbed into their roles, his role, as the one who submitted. He was lower. He was an escort, of course, he was lower. Inferior. Taking advantage of his shamefulness, someone had mocked. _

_His pet names were customary, just another step in their routine. Baby, Gloss, my sweet. Yoongi hadn’t thought of it. It didn’t really matter what the guy called him – none of those names were his. To Kiho, to everyone, he was a nobody. He could’ve been RM, N, Kai, or any generic escort name on the list, and it wouldn’t have mattered. They weren’t there to regard him as an individual. They were there for the fun of it, just as Yoongi was there for the money. He didn’t see the problem. _

_It wasn’t affection, fondness, love – none of that. It was adaptation, nullification, whatever. He didn’t really care when the silk had been replaced with handcuffs, the metal knocking against his wrists, bruising his skin more often. He barely noticed the occasional bites and hickeys, as they tainted his pale body. His pain tolerance was high, and that’s most likely why he didn’t resist the tighter squeeze around his arms, the overall roughness of the intercourse, all that. It was all consensual, anyway. _

_He finally felt the panic arise when the calloused thumb caressed the nape of his neck. He tugged at the cuffs, his knees buckling with his ankles tied to the ends of the bed. He blinked the dots out of sight, straining a smile. “Don’t touch me there.” He hoped the apprehension wasn’t too pronounced as he whispered his plea. Thankfully, Kiho apologized and the hand dropped to his hip. It was just a brief second, but the yellow teeth and hot breath in the pits of his memory had resurfaced, the fingers enclosed around his neck, crushing his windpipe. _

_But as nights passed, the fingers were back, bolder in movement and daring in gesticulation, the tip of Kiho’s middle finger applying pressure on Yoongi’s bobbing Adam’s apple. The escort tensed up significantly every time and tried to casually pull away from the touch, despite the restraints. Kiho hummed in response, the apologies waning in frequency but the fingers always circling around Yoongi’s red area. _

_When his entire palm wrapped around Yoongi’s neck one midnight, the escort snarled for the first time ever in bed. “Don’t,” He seethed, glowering at Kiho. “Orange.” It was his safe word – he never needed it – until then. “Don’t touch me.” _

_He almost collapsed and blacked out when the hand returned, rubbing his throat. Yellow teeth, suffocating breath, jagged nails, that October twilight. _

_“But Gloss,” Kiho hushed him, kissing his raw wrists, “You like it, don’t you?”_

_Fear. _

_Fear coiled in his stomach, as Kiho displayed no intention to stop. _

_“I,” His voice drowned into a rasp as a strong grip massaged his fragile neck. _

_“Let’s say you hate it, baby,” The man laughed – **laughed** – “But you’re just an escort, and I’m Choi Kiho. What’s going to matter more? Your infatuation with edgeplay, or my reputation and power?” _

_Just an escort. _

_Tears almost sprang to his eyes, as Yoongi carried himself back to the antique music store in his hometown. The piano. The flutes. The prized, precious golden flute he had promised to come back to. The soothing melody of jazz, classical pieces, as he sat on the piano bench too tall for his short legs, testing the keys. The day he abandoned his family, or when his family let go of him, for his sexuality, his aspirations, his life. He vaguely remembered entering BigHit with the sole purpose being to save up for producing music, for his dream. He also remembered that dream slipping from him, as he never had enough – and nobody wanted him, or his music. _

_Just an escort. _

_Just Gloss. _

_As Kiho almost strangled him to the brink of unconsciousness, he wished that he’d just disappear right there and then, never to wake up to the light again. _

_What was his name again?_

_Perhaps he was forgetting that, too. _

Yoongi glimpsed at his phone. It’s been five days since his cumbersomely arranged relationship with Taehyung blossomed. Theoretically, he was supposed to text Taehyung about their first proper “date,” or whatever this trial period meant. But Taemin’s news had completely thrown him off his axis, and he had even contacted the company to inform the managers that he wouldn’t be working for a couple of days. He had saved holidays, but this wasn’t how he planned to use them.

As much as longed to eradicate the marks of his past, it was easier said than done. He wasn’t exactly mortified by the man himself, but his potential. Demolishing Yoongi’s current life had no benefit to Kiho – there was little to damage, other than losing his job. In fact, if Taemin were able to tug some of his strings, he’d be capable of slipping information to the media that would play against Kiho.

Taehyung, though, he was a disparate matter. Yoongi knew almost _too well _how fragmented and capricious the entertainment industry was, based on Lee Teuk’s experience soon after his engagement with the former escort was publicized. Of course, the idol had a relatively solid fan base that supported his decision wholeheartedly, and Yoongi’s faith in humanity had been temporarily restored. However, the people that _actually _mattered, the authorities that could drop any celebrity as they pleased, did not approve. Yoongi had never witnessed Lee Teuk on the entertainment news headlines ever again, even after his most recent album release.

Choi Corporation possessed stocks in some of the largest entertainment businesses, including the world of fashion and aesthetics. And as much as Yoongi’s primal desires were screaming at him to pursue this new bond developing between him and Taehyung, he couldn’t just ignore the risk placed on the model’s head. Choi Kiho had the ability to trace an ant down to its mound if he so commanded – that’s how deep his network traveled. He had tracked Yoongi once – defiling Taehyung’s reputation and career would be more facile than earning a penny.

He breathes into his pillow that he’s hugging, his legs folded on the couch. Taehyung had promised to delete his number, but he already knew where Yoongi lived anyway. Sooner or later, the younger was going to find him loitering about somewhere. Besides, Taemin seemed resolute to have Taehyung and Yoongi date, and Taemin literally had access to all his personal information – and seeing how swiftly his phone number had been distributed, Yoongi wouldn’t doubt that Taemin would do more to achieve his dream.

_It’s just a date, _he sighs for the umpteenth time, _just a date. Nothing can go wrong, and Taehyung’s family is just as prestigious and powerful. It’ll be alright. _Given Kiho’s personality, he wouldn’t barge into their date and directly confront him. As ostentatious as the mogul could be, he abhorred unnecessary attention.

Resolved anew, Yoongi turns on his phone and types his message. He re-reads it over and over, and presses ‘send’ with a satisfied quirk of his lips.

** _You_ **

_4 PM at Mapo Bridge – don’t be late._

***

Seokjin fondles with the hem of his sweater, tapping his foot impatiently as he sits desolately in the waiting room. He hasn’t been here since his last breakup, and he had no intention to revisit the building for another two hundred years. Well, life rarely drove on the course you desired, so he had no qualms with that. But RM is now running fifteen minutes late to their appointment, and Seokjin isn’t a fan – he had another round of paperwork to deal with in two hours, and he was planning to allow himself a coffee break before that.

Admittedly, he _is _a wreck. He wasn’t certain that he’d actually carry through this proposition even until yesterday night, when he contacted Taemin and confirmed their meeting date and time. This venture could devastate his future, his career, _everything_ – that’s not even a hyperbole. He had so delicately constructed his life around him, meticulous in his creation. He had briefly considered rescinding his request, but his heart flared at the thought. As perilous this journey was, this could be his only opportunity to be free from his family, his responsibilities, and his name. It was his chance to be Jin – just Jin.

Amidst his rugged train of contemplation, the door bursts open.

“_Crap_, I’m so sorry- _ow, ow, ow._”

RM stumbles inside, his knee crashing into the metal door and his forehead knocking against the doorframe. Seokjin blinks, startled, as the escort groans and haphazardly removes the chair underneath the table. He scrutinizes the man’s attire, and notices that his necktie is flung over his shoulder and he has a gigantic mud stain on his white button-down.

“I swear, I’m usually not _this_ uncoordinated,” RM mumbles, his face flushed in humiliation, “I am, but I’m not this bad.” Seokjin bites down a hearty chuckle and instead, leans forward to adjust the position of RM’s tie. He smoothens the crease of his blazer as well, and plops back to his chair. “I had my tie there the entire- _god, _I must’ve looked like an idiot.”

Seokjin can’t hold back his laughter this time. “Hectic afternoon?”

“No, I just. My neighbor’s cat was stuck in a tree, and I was just trying to be helpful. I seemed to have forgotten that my limbs and I, we share the same body but possess distinct souls. They have their own will, I tell you.” Seokjin feels warm upon hearing the story. “Basically, I climbed the tree, the cat hopped on my head, I lost balance and landed on my ass.”

“I’m sorry about that,” The client snickers a little, “And here I was assuming that you were evading your arch-nemesis.”

“My arch nemesis?” RM frowns quizzically, “Who’s that?”

“Me, obviously.”

“You? I thought we were at least amicable associates at this point,” the escort chortles as he sifts through his files. “I don’t see how this boyfriend endeavor is going to work out if we’re mortal enemies.”

“Touché,” Clucking his tongue, Seokjin snatches one of the papers protruding from the files, “So, the terms on the Bold Page are identical as previous years. I’m guessing T ward escorts don’t have that sex document to fill out?”

“No. We do have a skinship limit, after all.”

“Kissing?”

“Depends on the escort.”

Seokjin hums, “What are your perimeters?”

Shrug, “Depends on my client.” The chaebol passes him an unimpressed, deadpan face, and RM amends, “The most physically intimate I’ve gotten was grinding and some clothed, borderline sex, but it was an impromptu situation that called for drastic measures.”

“What was this for?”

“Prying off a persistent stalker ex-girlfriend that wasn’t convinced that her boyfriend was gay.”

“Ah.” Seokjin echoes in understanding, “Well, I was just curious.”

“Enough about my history,” RM clears his throat, “Let’s talk about your request.”

His mouth dried. “Right, of course.”

“You wanted me to act like your boyfriend, correct?” Nod. “You specified the duration of the relationship to be until September – so around three months?” Another nod. “Pardon me for my, er, intrusion, but don’t you have a fiancé?”

“Yes. He’s also the precise reason why we are here today.” RM jots something down in his notepad. “My ultimate objective is to dissolve the engagement.”

“I see,” The escort replies diligently, “What exactly do you want me to do?”

“The… normal boyfriend routine?”

“Well, thank you, Captain Obvious, enlighten me.”

Seokjin’s skin heats up instantly. “I don’t know, I don’t have typical dating experience. Isn’t there a manual for this?”

“A manual for Six Steps to Success when a chaebol asks you to be a fake boyfriend when they’re already engaged? I can call the public library, see if they have one.”

“You’re absolutely _useless._”

RM chuckles, humored, “I’ll tone down on the jest. Let me rephrase my question, then. Are you looking for specific ‘date settings,’ or… do you want the paparazzi to catch us in a particular circumstance?”

“No, we don’t want the paparazzi involved. It’s more detrimental to BigHit than Kim Collective once that occurs.” Seokjin answers shrewdly, “It’s more… private. Hoseok volunteered to photograph our dates, and he’ll send them anonymously to my fiancé’s secretary. Your face will be cropped out, but it’ll be evident that I’m cheating on him. If it goes well, we won’t have to leak it to the press to forcefully break the marriage. I don’t want the media entangled as much as possible, I’m sure you sympathize.”

“Right, we don’t want that. That wouldn’t be very favorable for your brother too, I assume.”

“Especially my brother – it’s troublesome if the netizens investigate his personal history as well. It’d be marvelous if we could… conduct these dates in sparsely populated locations, for that reason.”

“Duly noted.” RM scribbles on the paper for another five seconds. “Any preferences for my attire?”

“That’s still a provided service?” Seokjin scrunches his nose, “Never understood that clause.”

“Our motto is centered around the satisfaction of our clients, after all.”

“I trust that you have sensible fashion sense.”

“I’m honored.” RM flashes a dimpled smile, which causes Seokjin’s dumb heart to flutter. “Speaking of sparsely populated locations, we could visit the Café Street in Yong In. It’s a famous date spot, but less crowded on weekdays. There’s also a barbeque alley with the most scrumptious _gobchang _ever.”

“_Now _we’re talking.”

“Is Hoseok going to stalk us the whole evening?”

Seokjin twists his lips, “I don’t know. He’ll probably leave within the first thirty minutes, since he always has to be somewhere. He’s my secretary, but also works as a dance instructor part-time at night. He has his own crew as well, and they’re practicing for a competition in November.”

“Damn, alright. Oh, also, about the money – for extensive missions such as this one, we don’t receive the payment beforehand, or, at least I don’t. It’s against my work ethic to do so, anyway. I know you offered twenty million, but I’m not confident that I can pull this feat off – I’d rather not bear the burden of the reward.”

“I can dance to that.”

“You don’t seem like a dancer, no offense.”

“You’re extremely rude for an escort, do you ever hear that?”

“Only from you, actually.” RM smirks snidely, “Any other cautions, information I should be aware of? Other than the fact that you’re a nasty drunkard.”

“I will literally hurl my Gucci shoes at you right now.”

“What a waste of money.”

_Why did he have to accept my request, of all the escorts available? _Seokjin had been somewhat relieved when he was notified that RM was his escort, but now he is going to retract that claim. This is disastrous. “If we have a movie date, I choose the movie. I despise horror films.”

“Okay.”

“Just call me Jin in public, because formalities between lovers are… not my thing. Wait, how old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“I’m twenty-eight, you pipsqueak youngster. Call me hyung.”

“I think I’m taller than you, though –“

“And are you RM? _Rap Monster_? That hideous alias, really? My boyfriend is so uncool.”

RM nibbles on his bottom lip, agitated. “… It’s not _hideous._ I like it better than my previous one.”

“Which was?”

“… Runch Randa,” Murmurs the escort begrudgingly, and Seokjin arches backward in an eruption of laughter. “It’s not _that _funny.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re the mastermind behind that name –“

“And if I am –“

“_Oh my god, _you’re awful.”

RM scratches his neck awkwardly, tonguing his cheek. “It’s in the past. I like my current name. Suits me better, I think.” When Seokjin parts his mouth in question, RM gripes, “No, it wasn’t my idea, before you insult me again.”

“Yeah?” More serene, Seokjin wipes a stray tear from his eye. “Who was it?”

“My sister.” RM tersely responds, his shoulders slightly tense. Seokjin purses his lips together, in silent realization that it’s the first time that the escort has disclosed anything about himself with the exception of his age. “I think she was trying to belittle me, but I like it.”

“Well, anything tops Runch Randa.” RM puffs at him. “And you still haven’t answered my main inquiry. Unless you want me to be like, ‘Hey, Runch honey, what do you want for lunch?’ God, did you hear that rhyme scheme just now?”

“You should never be a rapper.”

“Randa, my wanda –“

“Joon.” RM mumbles almost inaudibly, “Just Joon is fine.”

“Joon,” Seokjin lets the monosyllable roll off his tongue, testing the sound, “That’s easy to remember. Jin and Joon? We could be radio hosts or something, like Cultwo?”

“I’m not much for comedy.”

“You’re boring.”

“Precisely my point.”

“So, Joon-ah,” It’s refreshing, how smoothly the name cascades from his mouth, in comparison to the rocky ‘Leejungie.’ “I’ll pick you up at the company, six o’clock on the seventh. Don’t eat lunch – gotta empty your stomach for that gobchang, right?”

RM smiles warmly, “Alright, Jin-hyung. See you then.”

***

** _Bossman_ **

_KEEP 4PM ON THE SIXTH CLEAN AS A NEWBORN’S BUTTCHEEK YOU GET ME_

Jungkook almost groans aloud. He skims Taehyung’s schedule on the sixth: a shoot with Park Seojoon, one of Taehyung’s best friends in his five-hundred-kilometer-radius social circle, an interview (that Taehyung detested, but his mother insisted) with TV Chosun, and another mandatory meeting with his relatives about his –

“Jungkook, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, I apologize. It was an urgent text.” Jungkook bows at Kim-Woo Yejin, who is presently surrounded by five makeup artists and a lady with six types of nail polish on a two-floored cart beside her. “You were saying, Yejin-nim?”

“Taehyung, how is he faring?”

“Great, Yejin-nim. He’s been elated about the new program he’s on – it’s been an incredible experience for him.”

Yejin frowns in distress, but only for a split second. Fortunately, Jungkook has superhuman eyesight. “That boy, he only associates himself with those that won’t be of any benefit to his reputation. Always other models, other celebs, and B-class actors.”

“Well, he _is_ a model, Yejin-nim.” Jungkook remarks pointedly, but only earns an irked sigh from the woman.

“He is, Jungkook, of course, but there are myriads of paths that one can choose even in the shadiest corners, the most shambled districts. He still represents our family name – he is a Kim, do you follow?”

“Of course, Yejin-nim.”

“I’ve only been grateful that his palate in friends seems to be more refined that our Seokjinnie’s. The Parks are very hospitable, lucrative business partners – we are thankful that he’s the bridge between our families.” Jungkook heeds the muted implication that lies underneath the shawl of her politely phrased statement – Seokjin’s friends didn’t serve to profit the family. Hoseok’s family could barely afford clothes when they encountered as middle schoolers. They were in much better shape now, after Hoseok became the pillar of his household, sending enough money for them to move into a new apartment, and for Dawon to attend college. While Jungkook knows what she truly means, he permits it to slide. He had grown accustomed to her jibes – towards Hoseok, her sons, Jimin, and even him.

He sucks in a thick breath, “Of course, Yejin-nim.”

“Speaking of, when is the interview with TV Chosun? On the sixth, correct?”

“Ah, that,” Jungkook pauses, internally conflicted, his phone buzzing in his pocket. “It’s been delayed, actually. We were about to reschedule the date.”

“Oh, what could be of such paramount priority, that boy? Please don’t tell me he’s canceling the appointment for another, I don’t know, _friend_?”

_If friends are defined as those you kiss into Hong Kong, then I suppose she’s very accurate. _“No, there was an… emergency, with er, another CF deal.” That CF shoot isn’t until another three weeks, but those were minor details.

Yejin outstretches her legs on a stool, cracking her neck. “Ah, well, I’m sure you have it figured out. His father and I were discussing the other night, about Taehyung’s future. We allowed him to do his model gig because we had Jinnie, but that boy, he always had a knack for charming others. He’d be a mascot of sorts for our family, don’t you agree? He has the looks, popularity, and skill, if incorporated efficiently –“ Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling through his nostrils.

“Yejin-nim, Tae- no, hyung doesn’t acclimate facilely to every environment he is thrust into, especially such… formal, political occasions. His abundance of acquaintances and friends is due to the nature of his occupation and also because hyung genuinely enjoys his job.”

Yejin narrows her fake lashes at him, “He’s been performing exquisitely at Seokhoon’s social meets, though, hasn’t he?”

_Well, he’s at the balcony ninety-five percent of the time, so I suppose. _“It’s out of respect for Seokhoon-nim, of course. Hyung always expresses how indebted he is to you and Seokhoon-nim.”

“Then he should respect our wishes as well, don’t you think?”

Jungkook has never been the most tranquil member of the group – in fact, he was roused by any borderline discourteous commentary about his friends. Hoseok, who had years of experience ahead (and principally dealt with Kim Seokhoon) of Jungkook, taught the maknae how to quell his emotions. _“Picture what’d befall Taehyung and Jin-hyung when we lash out, Kook. Especially Tae.” _

So today, he thinks before he implodes, once again.

“I’ll pass it on, Yejin-nim.” He pinches his thigh for a wincing smile. She waves him away with her painted nails and perfumed hair, smacking her lips satisfactorily. The bodyguard bows in farewell and marches out of the room.

Once he closes the door, he unbuttons his shirt and stifles a groan. A minute longer in that acrimonious place and he would’ve vomited all over the carpet. He had it better than Hoseok, who conversed with Seokhoon every Monday morning only to stand next to his desk like the Statue of Liberty whilst listening to his one-hour homophobic rant about his son and how incompetent he was. Jungkook couldn’t comprehend how Hoseok managed to beam exuberantly throughout, but the man simply said, _“Muscle memory, Kook. It’s real.”_

He scurries down the staircase and trudges to Taehyung’s compartment in the mansion, where Jungkook had been solicited to water the marigolds and daisies of his greenhouse garden. Taehyung’s week had been too packed to frequent his home, and he spent more nights on a temporary hotel floor than his bed.

There’s someone already inside the greenhouse, the hose gripped in his hand as he sprays water over the rectangle of marigolds.

“Jimin-ssi?” Jungkook exclaims, confounded. Jimin swivels around and winks at him flirtatiously, before concentrating on the direction of the hose again. “What are you doing here?”

“Do I need an appropriate motive to assist my best friend?” The dancer jerks his chin so that his bangs don’t obstruct his view. “Besides, I presumed that you might need some company. You met Queen Bitch today, didn’t you?”

“_Queen Bit_ –“ Jungkook knits his mouth together. “She’s technically my donor and employer.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t magically transform her bitchy nature, right? Once a bitch, always a bitch. At least King Dick is more forward with his fuckery; she’s just, _don’t you agree, _like they have any choice other than saying yes.” Jimin hands him another hose, in which Jungkook clasps in his fist as well. “I also have some news.”

“What is it?”

“For free?”

Jungkook clucks his tongue. “What do you want?”

“Hmm,” Jimin taps his chin pensively, “Buy me a vanilla frappe after this.”

“Deal.”

“Alright, well, I did a background check on that Suga.”

“You _what?_”

“You know, I stalked him.”

“Invasion of his personal privacy, you mean. That’s illegal.”

“Dispatch does it all the time, hush. I can’t have my best friend date a hooligan that declares that Africa is a country.” Jimin hisses venomously, “I didn’t dig too deep. He’s twenty-seven, that’s confirmed, and I got his given first name too, but I don’t think I should reveal that to you. He’s got his high school diploma in Daegu and moved to Seoul, but I don’t know what for. I didn’t investigate his family, so _stop _looking at me like I’m a criminal. I also… detected something atypical, in his escort records.”

Jungkook gapes at him in disbelief. “How do you even have access to that?”

Jimin remains speechless for a while, until he rubs his neck, “… There’s a guy at my dance studio. I jokingly brought up the escort topic, and well, he confessed that he was one too, at BigHit. I mentioned Suga, and it all spiraled down from there – he has connections for that. He sent me Suga’s escort record, but it doesn’t contain any details, just basic information – the date of his appointments for the past couple of years, who the clients were, etc.”

“And, the atypical part?”

“I’m getting there. Prior to his transition from the S ward to the T ward, he accepted around twenty to twenty-five requests from the same person, on a weekly basis. On their final appointment together, it was noted that the client was ‘blacklisted,’ which apparently signifies that the person cannot submit another request to the company again. And the person – we know him.”

“We know a lot of people, Jimin-ssi. Half of South Korea, at least.”

“You know, Choi Kiho? The banished heir of Choi Corporations?”

“Oh, well, yeah. He’s returned, though, hasn’t he? His stepmother was caught in some scandal, by the rumors.”

“The timeframe which he was blacklisted aligns with when he departed from Korea, meaning that those two events are related.” Jimin inhales, “Of course, that alone would be negligible. But then as we talked about Taehyung, my friend, he queried whether it was about the model, V. And everyone knows that we’re best friends through national television, so I said yes. Right then, he jumps and chirps, ‘then you should’ve just went to his brother, he should know!’”

“Jin-hyung?” Jungkook furrows his brows, “Why would he know?”

Jimin rumbles, “He dated an escort, Jungkook. He dated one from BigHit for four years. And he never shared that with us, ever.” It’s as if someone splashed a bucket of ice on him. “I don’t know why he felt like he couldn’t. We would’ve been worried, of course, but none of us would’ve rejected the notion. Four years, like how did we not notice? I mean, Hoseok-hyung probably knew, but what about the rest of us?”

“… I’m sure he had his reasons,” Jungkook compromises within, tilting the hose to the other corner. “And they broke up, didn’t they? Perhaps that’s why.”

“A year ago, yeah. It’s just, agh, that’s not even my point here.” The shorter male stomps on the soil, aggravated. “The period where Suga started meeting Choi Kiho, and when Jin-hyung began dating that escort – it matches, because Suga’s been in the T ward for a while now. Suga and Taehyungie are an item, Choi Kiho is back in the country, Jin-hyung and Leejung are about to get married in September – isn’t something fishy?”

The bodyguard sniffs, un-amused, “You’ve been watching too many K-dramas.”

“I- I mean, yeah, but no! I have this, this premonition that rather than Taehyung, we’ll have to be wary for Jin-hyung. Just a feeling, but my intuition is always on target.”

“Mhm.”

“_Jungkook_,” Jimin whines petulantly, punching Jungkook’s forearm. “I’m serious. You know there are not a lot of people I can trust amongst the Kims, even those who technically aren’t. And,” The male scrapes the rubber surface of his hose gravely, “I can’t let anything happen to those two. They did so much for me.”

Jungkook twists the faucet and hooks the hose into place. He reminisces his first year with the Kims, where Taehyung would giggle as Jungkook painted flowers, clapping at the boy’s masterpieces, scampering around the whole mansion to boast “our Kook’s art.” It had been mildly embarrassing at the time, but it was always a fond memory. “Yeah,” He acquiesces, “We’re on the same page, Jimin-ssi.”

Jimin snorts, “I’ve given up on you and your formalities,” He slaps Jungkook lightly, “Would you have called me hyung if we met earlier, like Jin-hyung, Hoseok-hyung, and Tae?”

“Mm,” Jungkook glances sideways, “No.”

“_Why_?”

Jungkook, the one with the brightest memory of the group, definitely remembers the day he encountered Park Jimin, when he was appointed the bodyguard of the Kims and the secretary of Taehyung. Jimin, his hair cotton candy pink, wearing a striped sweater at least three sizes too large and torn jeans, approached Jungkook with a sultry smile tinged with the scent of wine.

“… I’m not obligated to tell you,” He huffs, in which Jimin gasps in faux horror and betrayal.

That’s good, because it’s probably better to not elucidate the situation Jungkook had to deal with in the bathroom after their fateful meeting.

***

_He was from a relatively average family. Middle class, mother, father, sister, and Namjoon. They couldn’t afford a Lamborghini but they had a functioning Hyundai, and they didn’t dwell in the core of Cheongdam-dong but they had their own home in Ilsan. His parents were like any other couple – bantered, were clumsy in expressing their feelings after a lengthy marriage of twenty years, but cared for each other as lifelong companions. He scarcely communicated with his sister, but they weren’t on appalling terms either, just like a normal sibling relationship would be. _

_The cogs began to turn in the opposite direction when he attended his new elementary school in fifth grade, after his homeroom teacher contacted his parents after his initial round of tests. “Your son is a prodigy,” She announced elatedly, sliding Namjoon’s report card and IQ test results to his parents, “He has the potential to go to SKY, KAIST, Sungkyunkwan, any in-Seoul university. Namjoon can do it.”_

_That was the magical spell. _

_A magical spell that his parents fell under. _

_It was math academy after chemistry lessons, and Chinese character practices after literature readings. Namjoon enjoyed studying, though; he had always been enchanted by the sophisticated world of science, philosophy, literature, and everything else. It was stressful and a rigorous curriculum to follow, but he liked to learn new material and apply his knowledge elsewhere. _

_He had been blind, however, to how that was affecting his surroundings. His mother had scurried out of the house more often than before, to consult with other mothers about famous academies in the region and how their sons went to Seoul National’s medical school. His father was never at the dinner table anymore, working overnight at the company. And beyond that, his sister had been isolated from everyone, with all eyes fixated on Namjoon. His mother cooed at his scores and clucked her tongue at hers, his father patted Namjoon on the shoulder every morning and sighed at his sister, and their relatives gushed about how clever he was while they glimpsed sympathetically at Kyungmin. _

_Namjoon should’ve realized. He should’ve realized how secluded his sister was becoming, how she would lock herself in her room for the evening and outright refuse to eat with them. He disregarded her fits as a childish issue – it wasn’t like they were particularly attached to each other to begin with. But even then, he should’ve noticed, because he was her brother. Her family. _

_But of course, he didn’t._

_In sixth grade, his cousin slept over at their house because his parents had to travel to Hong Kong for a business trip. He was fifteen years old, and the “problem child” of the family because he was apparently a “rebellious teenager” that never submitted to his parents. Namjoon still secretly believed that he was the coolest cousin brother ever – he would teach Namjoon how to skateboard (which he was incapable of, after tumbling into a river five times) and revealed his stash of hip-hop CDs to Namjoon when they were at family reunions. _

_That afternoon, his cousin brought an Epik High CD, a grin plastered over his pudgy face. “You’ll love it. I know you’ll freaking love it.” They huddled around the CD player in the living room, with both of Namjoon’s parents outdoors and his sister holed up in her bedroom. _

_When he listened to the melody of ‘Fly,’ his life flipped one-eighty. _

_The exhilarating rap, the beat of the music, the addicting rhythm – it was an exquisite combination that he never knew was achievable. He didn’t breathe for a solid minute until he coughed on his own saliva, hacking due to the lack of oxygen. His cousin paused the song and worriedly asked, “You alright there?” Namjoon motioned to keep playing in panic, and the other nodded, slightly weirded out. _

_It wasn’t the best piece of music offered out there. Perhaps he was over-exaggerating. However, that was the day he fell in love with music – a separate spell from his parents. _

_For most years of his youth, he wrapped this passion in a blanket and stowed it at the bottom of his heart. As a son, he wanted to meet the expectations of his parents, teachers, and peers. He pursued his studies, excelled in all subjects, and eventually became the valedictorian his senior year, with an acceptance letter from Seoul National University’s medical school. His parents had been overjoyed; his mother in tears and his father roaring in laughter that he owed his friends a drink. _

_His sister was not present at his graduation. _

_Comically enough, his sister was also the only person who knew about his participation in underground scenes after he entered university. It was an utter coincidence – she discovered his sheets of music and lyrics on his desk when she came in for a pair of scissors. _

_“Runch Randa?” She crinkled her nose in aversion, “You?”_

_He had been taken aback for a second, because that was their first conversation in probably ten months. “Uh,” He beamed sheepishly, “Yeah?”_

_“Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, actually burning your ass off at SNU? Or is the curriculum there a joke for you, too?” _

_He grazed his tongue on his canine tooth uncomfortably. “That’s not true. I was always intrigued by the musical field.” _

_Kyungmin tautened. “Then you should’ve gone to a music school.”_

_“That’s a huge investment for mother and father, and besides, there’s you too.” _

_“Well, clearly, you’re the only one that matters.” She tossed the papers back at him with a sneer, as Namjoon’s frown deepened. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tattle. Can’t trash your perfect kid image, can I?” _

_“Kyungmin, wait –“ The door slammed. He was stunned by her outburst, but simultaneously, he found that it logically made sense. His parents never spared his sister a glance, or even ten seconds to ask how she was doing at school. Nobody had. Not even Namjoon. Especially not Namjoon. _

_He was clueless when it came to relationships in general – when he saw the abyss that formed between his sister and him, it was already too wide and too jagged to rectify. What did Kyungmin’s room look like? Did she prefer pink or blue? Could she drink coffee yet? What was her favorite dish? It used to be stir-fried pork belly in gochujang, but what about now? What did she do in her room all day? Who were her friends? _

_It was too late, but he wanted to change. They were never perfect, never exchanged more than ten sentences in one conversation, but he could learn more about her, at least. At least, that’s what he presumed. _

_He knocked on her door one evening, with a list gripped in his fist. Kyungmin blinked at him. “Uh, hey.” She muttered something inaudible under her breath, rolling her eyes. Namjoon winced. “I’m actually in dire need of advice right now. You said I had abominable naming sense, so I was wondering if you could, er, help me come up with a new stage name?” _

_“… For your rap thing?”_

_He nodded affirmatively, “My rap thing.”_

_“Whatever,” She grumbled reluctantly, “Come in.” _

_Her room was neatly organized, much more than Namjoon’s ever was. She had her textbooks on one shelf, her stationery on another, her futon folded on the edge of her mattress, and a cute fairy lamp on her bedside drawer. It was very green – so his sister liked green, huh. He didn’t know that. She also had many Kakao character dolls sitting adorably on her desk, from Ryan to Peach. He could buy a merch for her birthday. _

_“What are your options?” _

_“Um, well,” He fumbled for his list, “I have Socrates –“_

_“Jesus, give me that.” Kyungmin snapped, exasperated. She skimmed down the list once and crumpled it. Namjoon’s jaw dropped. “These are even worse than your Lunch Banda.” _

_“It’s Runch Randa.”_

_“Practically identical.” She massaged her temples and clenched her lids shut, “Aren’t you a genius? Can you not name things creatively?” _

_“I…” He trailed off, “Uh, I only admire artwork, to be honest. I’m creatively challenged.” _

_She ‘hmph’ed, “You know what? You rap, and you destroy stuff. Just be Rap Monster.” _

_“Wasn’t that really lackluster just now?”_

_“I don’t care.”_

_“Rap Monster,” He reiterated, Rap Monster. “Hey, I think I kind of like it.” He really did, no lies there. It was catchy, could be abbreviated, and had a nice feel to it. Kyungmin glared at him. _

_“Just get out of my room.”_

_“Okay, okay.” He stumbled towards the living room again, warmth blossoming within his stomach. Some rappers leered at his new alias, but that didn’t really bother him. He was RM – Rap Monster. That was Kim Namjoon. _

_His father’s company went bankrupt in his junior year, without warning. Although SNU’s tuition was considered cheap, and they had savings to feed on for half a year, they didn’t have money to send Kyungmin to university. Namjoon was in his physics lecture when his parents discussed the crisis with his sister at the dinner table, that she’d have to relinquish her dreams for the sake of the family. _

_“But that’s not fair,” Namjoon persisted when the news reached his ears as well, “Kyungmin wants to become a psychologist. I saw how hard she studies – if she can yield the minimum scores on the upcoming examination, I’m sure she’ll –“ _

_“We have you.” His father cut him short, “For now, we’ll borrow money from your grandmother until we devise a solution. You focus on getting your degree.” _

_He sought out for a job for that purpose – for Kyungmin’s tuition. Namjoon had money in his account that he earned from performances, in his petite glory of fame underground. Just a little more, and he could pay for an in-Seoul university, or any university, for that matter. And that’s how he arrived at the interview for BigHit. _

_He promised Kyungmin that he’d make it happen. She seemed skeptical and blew off his suggestion, but he was undeterred. The money from BigHit was a pretty sizable sum, and he sent his parents a portion of his earnings on a monthly basis, the rest kept for Kyungmin. This was his way of repenting for his past, for neglecting his sister and ignoring how she was rotting away in the corner, shadowed by his presence. _

_It was going smoothly. Until he told his parents the source of the money. _

_“I’m an escort.”_

_His father peered up from his newspaper and his mother turned off the television. His sister was peeling the onions in the kitchen for dinner. _

_“Sorry, dear?” His mother inquired with a quivering smile, “You’re…”_

_“An escort.” He answered – he knew his parents wouldn’t take the announcement well, but –_

_“That’s a funny joke, son.” His father sniffed and wore his spectacles again. His mother chortled as well, her hand on the TV remote. _

_“I’m not joking.” Great. Even his sister had stopped peeling the onions. “How do you think I was sending all that money? I’ve graduated, but I haven’t decided whether I want to actually become a doctor or –“_

_There was a deafening ‘bang’ that resounded within their house, as his father smashed his fist onto the glass roundtable. Namjoon was shocked into muteness, and his mother jumped at his reaction. His sister was quiet. _

_“Namjoon. You better not be serious about this.” _

_He had never witnessed such rage in his father’s orbs, ever. His father had barely raised his volume or resorted to violence – he was not that kind of person. Hot-tempered, but definitely not to that degree. That’s why Namjoon deemed it safe to disclose his newfound career to his parents. Not wise, but safe, at least. _

_He wasn’t too certain, as he watched the glass vibrate under the force of the collision. _

_“I,” Kyungmin was staring at him from afar. He had no idea what was running through her mind. “I’m serious.”_

_It was a torrent of chaos afterward. _

_His father punched him in the face. There was blood, a lot of shouting, the distant echo of glass shattering, the high-pitched screech of his mother, and an explosion of whiteness as pain scorched through his body, his gut pummeled with his father’s foot. His mother was screaming at him to stop, ‘he’s our son,’ she was weeping, as his father hollered, ‘he’s not, he’s not, he’s not, there’s no way that fucking whore is my son.’ _

_It did halt after an hour or so, with Namjoon on the floor, his father nowhere to be seen, his mother wiping his crimson cheek, and his sister vanished from the vicinity. _

_He gazed at the ceiling, disarrayed and numb. His mouth tasted like iron and salt, and his head was ringing incessantly. He could feel his mother caress his cheek, then his torso, and finally his ankle, which must’ve been twisted. _

_“Don’t come back here.” She whispered ruefully, “Never say that you’re Kim Namjoon, son of Kim Yejun and Kim Hansook.” _

_That’s how he was disowned – a rivulet of blood from his cracked lip, his left cheek swollen and bruised, his ribs aching, hurting all over. He didn’t cry, because that’d probably cause even more agony than he was already subject to. _

_Yoongi was his savior. He dashed to Namjoon’s side in the clinic, packed Namjoon’s belongings without complaint, and heeded Namjoon’s story. Namjoon didn’t spill everything – just enough for Yoongi to understand the vague picture. The other escort didn’t say anything in response – there was no ‘it’s not your fault,’ or ‘it’ll get better.’ Just silence. Namjoon preferred that, too. _

_He visited his sister one last time, a bundle of cash from his account in his bag. He gifted it to her before he departed Ilsan, his former home, now stripped from him. She glowered at the money and slapped it out of his bandaged hand. “You’re a fucking idiot.” When she proceeded to trudge away determinedly, he grabbed her wrist. _

_“Kyungmin, please. It’s for you.”_

_She ripped her arm from his grasp, “And you think I’ll thank you for this? That I’d ever forget how everyone treated me because of you? Because you were so almighty, so smart, so much more valuable than I am as a person, even when you have a shitty stage name like Rap Monster?” Pure revulsion – that was the unidentifiable emotion he perceived in her this whole time. “I hate you. I always will.”_

_“It doesn’t matter.” He murmured, “Just take it. You’ll need it.”_

_With a bitter snort, she did. _

_Of course, the blame was not all on Namjoon. There had been the role of his parents, his relatives, and others that amounted to this consequence. But maybe, just maybe, if Namjoon had been slightly more perceptive, a little more observant, and more understanding of Kyungmin, then this could’ve been prevented. However, everything had already passed, and Namjoon was the kind of person, unfortunately, to embrace that blame and guilt. _

_‘Not another Kyungmin,’ he resolved –_

_Not another Kyungmin, for the sake of Kim Namjoon. _


	13. First Dates and a Night to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first official-ish dates of both couples, and this time, for once and for all, a night to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I didn't know this chapter would be delayed so much. I was overwhelmed with college applications - which I have finished successfully - and also wrote another fic for my friend. Check that out too, it's a YoonMin soulmate fic, if you're interested! Anyway, I'm so sorry about the late chapter guys, and happy 2020!
> 
> There is CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT in this chapter (what????) and also relationship development, like, wow. Also, many heart-to-heart conversations, which... I don't know, could be boring, but I thought was meaningful to building their relationships. Tell me how you guys think about it! 
> 
> Note that 'a night to remember' is a contrast from chapter five (I think, I forget my chapters), a night to forget :D
> 
> FINALLY - this fic has exceeded 100k words! I've never written such a long fanfic, so I'm proud of myself, but also concerned because we're about halfway through, or over halfway. Eh, it's fine. Thanks for all your support and comments, kudos, subscribes, etc. You guys make my day <3
> 
> Enough from me, enjoy this belated chapter!

“You know how once upon a time, you proclaimed that RM was the bane of your existence?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Do you also remember how you shittalked his best friend who had committed absolutely no wrong to you?”

“Okay, about that –“

“And also,” Hoseok smacks his lips as he taps his fingers on the steering wheel, “How you _technically_ still have fifty pages of paperwork to sign at your office?”

“But I was occupied with selecting my attire –“

“Yes, between your dark blue jeans and light blue jeans, the decision of the century. Consumed a wholesome half an hour, of course. I totally understand, Jin.”

“I promised that I’d complete my duties after the date, Hoseok.”

“Right, you better.” Hoseok chastises as he stomps on the brakes, “Hyung, you _know _that you’re not the only person chewed out like hell when people catch on that you’re slacking. If it’s just me that’s belittled then it’s fine, but imagine how it’ll affect Jungkook – the authorities always gossip about his background to begin with, including Tae.”

“I’m more aware than anyone, don’t fret.” Seokjin heaves a sigh, smoothening out the creases of his simple black shirt. “I’m more apprehensive about the fact that my parents have already commenced the wedding plan.”

“Well, we only have three months remaining. That’s not a lot of leisure for wedding planning ordinarily.”

“It kind of is when your parents are moguls and are always regarded as priority clients. They can literally make anything come true in a given timeframe, no matter how tight.” Seokjin huffs sardonically, crossing his arms, “I’m certain they had most choices finished already when they brought the topic up at the dinner. You know how my opinion isn’t very crucial to the entire picture – when is it ever different?”

“Which is precisely why we’re breaking this off,” Hoseok declares with pride, and Seokjin chortles from the back. “We’re really doing this, Jin-hyung.”

“Of course we are, we’re not faking this, are we?”

“You’re attractive when you’re haughty.”

“I’m _perpetually, _eternally, forever attractive.” Seokjin smirks, flicking his invisible hair. Then, “… Do you think that’s objective or subjective, Hoseok?”

Hoseok glimpses at Seokjin from the inner mirror and snickers a little. “That,” His heel smashes into the brakes, and Seokjin cushions his head’s collision into the front seat with his palm. Before he can holler at Hoseok, the secretary swivels back and grins, “You can ask RM. See what he thinks.”

“Seokie, are you planning on _killing_ us?”

“No, I got you to your destination.”

“That should not involve my skull on the brink of being shattered into pieces, right?”

“One, that was inertia. Two, the car seat covers are leather. Three, based on the aforementioned information, your skull was not on the brink of being shattered into pieces. And four,” Hoseok’s index finger shoots to the right, outside the window. “Your Prince Charming is hot today.”

Seokjin positions his head following Hoseok’s straight finger. In that direction, there’s RM, in a comfortable gray button-down and black jeans, a silver watch on his wrist and navy slip-ons. He’s doing that thing – where he twists his wrist to look at the time, which causes the sunlight to emphasize his sharp jawline and slightly tan skin. “Only if he weren’t so hot,” Seokjin clucks his tongue irately, “I would be complaining.”

“So, are you?”

“Are you deaf? I said I ‘would be,’ not I am.” Seokjin opens the door and flashes a bright smile at Hoseok. “Take awesome pictures, Hoseok-ah.”

“Roger that, sir.”

He exits the vehicle and trudges towards the escort with a confident rhythm in his pace. RM faces up and his lips quirk as he sees Seokjin. “Hey, Jin.”

“I have a serious inquiry.”

RM tilts, the petite curve now a full, dimpled smile. “Fire away.”

“Am I attractive?”

“I was not expecting that.”

“That’s not important.”

RM hums noncommittally, puts his hands into his pockets, and leans into Seokjin’s face. _Wow, he’s hot even five centimeters apart, this cursed escort. _“Hm, fair skin, pointy nose, shoulders as wide as the Pacific Ocean, and flawless fashion,” RM retracts himself, and Seokjin tenses. “You look good, Jin.”

He dismisses the deflating sensation in his chest. “Just good?”

“Well, I need a plethora of adjectives to utilize when you wear something like, hm, a designer-brand, personally fitted tuxedo crafted by a renowned professional from a rural village in Italy, don’t I? So I’m beginning with good.” The escort beams teasingly, and that deflating sensation inflates again. “Well? You’ve never commented about me.”

“You’re…” Seokjin pretends to examine the male, tapping his bottom lip contemplatively, “Passable, at least.”

“Just passable?”

“I have a pathetic vocabulary pool, you see. I have to save the better ones for the future.” RM snorts and Seokjin laughs as well. “Where’s our next station?”

“Hm,” RM purses his mouth pensively, “How about tteokbokki before our gobchang? Spicy before greasy, yes?”

“You’re a man of culture.”

“Thank you.” RM extends his hand towards Seokjin, and the latter blinks at the man’s slender fingers.

“And… what should I do with your hand?”

“Hold it, obviously.” The hand hovers in the air, in the space between them. “I’m your boyfriend, aren’t I? Fake, but your boyfriend. And your boyfriend, with fake in parenthesis, is a man of culture, and doesn’t do anything physical or sexual without your consent.” RM’s thumb twitches. “You’re welcome to slap this away if you don’t want to.”

Seokjin rolls his eyes. “People are staring, and I’m not a jerk.” Inhaling a steady breath, he weaves his knobby fingers into RM’s. “You’re lucky. I applied hand cream today. A new tube, honey-scented. You’ll smell nice, too.”

“Then thank you for that, too. No wonder your skin is so smooth. Let’s go, shall we? I’m well-acquainted with the halmeoni of the boonshik truck at the corner block. She sells heavenly fried shrimp and eomook.”

“You really know how to flirt with me, don’t you?” Seokjin clasps their hands together, so that his joints rub against RM’s. RM guides the way, and they exchange casual questions and answers. Seokjin gains trivial information – the escort doesn’t like seafood, but likes catching hermit crabs. ‘I caught 24 of them once,’ RM reminisces, ‘and then I felt guilty, because it appeared as if I was ripping a family apart. So I didn’t catch any afterward.’ _Endearing, _Seokjin mentally notes. He likes coffee, which is apparently Suga’s influence, after five years of their friendship. He has an IQ of 148, and was the valedictorian of his high school – attended SNU and graduated with a medical degree.

He’s startled by this update, but not shocked. Anyone could judge that RM was an intelligent man – there’s the telltale sparkle in his orbs. “You’re the picture-perfect Harvard kid, aren’t you?”

“Not really,” RM shrugs nonchalantly, “If I were, then I wouldn’t be an escort, right?”

“Ah, accurate. A… derailed Harvard kid? One that couldn’t withstand the standards of his family.” He pauses for a second. “That’s more me, never mind. I’m sorry.”

“No,” RM shakes his head a little, “You’re not too far from the mark. But that’s personal, and I’m not permitted to divulge personal information under any cost, so… that’s all I’ll say. And we’ve arrived, now.” Seokjin halts in front of the brick red food truck, which is curtained with a large plastic sheet, _Halmeoni Tteokbokki _written with green duct tape. RM lifts the plastic and drags Seokjin inside. It’s slightly warm due to the steam floating and dispersing throughout the interior of the truck, but not enough to be unbearable. “Halmeoni,” RM shouts excitedly, and the grandmother stirring the metal pot of eomook looks up and smiles.

“It’s been a while, Joon-ah!” She wipes her arms and sets her apron aside on the counter. “You ungrateful brat, you haven’t shown up for five weeks! You’ve been cheating on another boonshik truck, right? Tch, Yoonie hasn’t been poking around either, this is why sons are absolutely useless.”

“What an affronting accusation, halmeoni, I’ve just been swarmed with work and all that. Yoon as well. Ah, he’s on a date, though. He has a boyfriend now.”

The old lady guffaws as she grabs a plate from the tall stack by the sink. “Finally, that kiddo’s balls have sprouted too, haven’t they? Good for him, good for him.” She flits at Seokjin curiously. “And him? A new friend, because Yoonie has abandoned you?”

“I’m morose that you regard me as such a loser, halmeoni.” RM smiles lightly, and raises their interlaced hands. “He’s my boyfriend, halmeoni.”

“Ah,” She nods once, then twice. “You have refined taste, Joon-ah.”

Seokjin can’t suppress his grin at her honesty. “My name is Kim Seokjin, ma’am. Nice to meet you.”

“Ma’am?” Her gray brows furrow amusedly. “You’re skilled at buttering your words, I see. Does that come with your porcelain face?”

“No, I’m a natural.”

She chortles, clearly humored. “I like him, Joon-ah. I’m Lee Yeonshim, but just call me halmeoni.”

“Oh, but aren’t you young? Could’ve mistakenly addressed you as noona.” Seokjin winks, and Yeonshim doubles over in hearty laughter.

“Your boyfriend is something, Joon-ah. He might be my new favorite child.”

“What? But you said last time –“

“How many cars do you have, Seokjin-ah?”

“Enough to present you with at least five of the ones I don’t drive, _noo-na._”

“Favorite child right there,” She snaps her fingers elatedly, and Namjoon pouts as he snatches his hand away from the grasp. “Well, I’ll serve your tteokbokki and fried shrimp and eomook. Leave the cash on the counter – I’m going to provide you newlyweds with some privacy. An ideal hour to close the truck, too.”

“Huh? Halmeoni, you usually don’t wrap up until nine –“

“Privacy is an extraneous term in the universe of a second-generation chaebol, isn’t it?” Yeonshim drops the bowl of eomook and tteokbokki on the metal surface. Seokjin stares at her in disbelief. “I have iconic memory, you see – specifically for handsome men. You’re a challenging face to forget.” She glimpses at Seokjin and puffs. “What, don’t look so intimidated; it ruins your face. There’s no merit for me, slipping this to the reporters. Enjoy your date, Joon-ah – and Jin-ah.” With that, she slips out of the truck swiftly.

RM pops his mouth awkwardly. “She’s trustworthy, I promise. And she also knows almost everything about the galaxy. I’m certain that she knows I’m an escort, despite the fact that I’ve introduced myself as a banker upon our first encounter.”

The tension evaporates from Seokjin’s shoulders. “Yeah, I can deduce that much. I’ve seen thousands of people to recognize those that are not.” He stabs a sauce-coated rice cake with a skewer. “It’s just, nobody typically recognizes… me. I’m merely Kim Seokhoon’s son.”

“Heh,” RM hums, “Where’s your sass?”

Seokjin tosses the rice cake into his mouth. It’s an impeccable balance of spicy and sweet, the texture soft but not sticky. _So good._ “My sass is a façade, I’m sure you can tell.” He pierces another tteok. “I wouldn’t have survived without it, though. Therefore, I can’t discard it facilely. Like you escorts and your silly codenames.”

“A codename is just a codename.”

“False.” _Yeonshim halmeoni cooks really well. I should visit here often. _“To my ex-boyfriend, his name was everything. He couldn’t breathe without it. I thought we were similar in that aspect – that we couldn’t wake up to a morning where we weren’t crafting another layer of our artistic mask. And that’s why I loved him.” He slurps at the broth of the eomook. The rich umami of seafood tumbles over his tongue, and he smiles in satisfaction. “It’s sweet to have someone relatable by your side, you know? Escorts are like that, to me.”

“I’m not your ex-boyfriend.”

“But you’re an escort.”

“Not all escorts are identical.”

“Then why don’t you tell me your name?” Seokjin queries daringly, his pulse thumping madly. “Isn’t Rap Monster your mask?”

RM observes him prudently, fiddling with his chopsticks, his canine tooth splitting his dry lip. “My alias is not a mask. It’s a form of repentance and a method to remember.” He chews on a piece of fried shrimp. “Because I’m scared that I’ll forget what I did.” There’s a whirlwind of emotions behind RM’s quavering eyes – and Seokjin realizes that the escort was crossing a line – for Seokjin. He didn’t have to explicate that in detail, or at all. But he did, to clarify Seokjin’s statement. “I’m not your ex, Jin.”

“… It’s not a very opportune moment to inquire what you did, is it?”

“You’re correct – it’s not.” RM replies curtly, sipping his cup of soup as well. “But since you were being vulnerable, I thought it’d only be reasonable for me to be, too.”

“That’s definitely false. I could be vulnerable on my own.”

“True,” RM munches on the last rice cake, “Maybe I wanted to be vulnerable for someone, just for a while.”

“Are you okay with that person being me?” Seokjin drops his skewer and chopsticks and gazes at the escort, who offers him a napkin.

“I’m not sure if I comprehend your question, Jin,” RM adjusts his shirt and reaches for his wallet in his pocket, “I wanted to be vulnerable because you were that person. Your question is not applicable.” Seokjin has no clue what expression he’s wearing currently, but he is gaping, so he assumes he doesn’t look very shrewd or calm. “I’m paying this round. You can pay for the gobchang – that’s more costly, and I’m broke.”

_Crap. He can’t just throw lines at me like that. Not fair. _“You’d be a great actor,” Seokjin grumbles agitatedly, “You should sign a contract with an entertainment company or something.”

“Unfortunately, I have an assignment to complete.” RM links their hands together once more, with that infuriatingly gorgeous dimpled smile of his. “That was our appetizer – ready for the gobchang?”

“Is soju included in the course?”

“How does one discuss gobchang without the presence of soju?”

“Hot, dimples, with the supernatural ability to spout lines from romance films, and a man of cultured palate.” Seokjin sighs in resignation, “You’re making it challenging for me to dislike you.”

“Excellent, since we’re boyfriends.”

It’s cool outdoors, probably because they’ve been propped in that cramped truck of steam for half an hour. The Café Street is relatively empty, like RM reassured at their meeting, the roads ornate with yet to be removed Valentine's decorations – pink balloons, paper-cut hearts, white plastic chains, and flamboyant rainbow flakes. “They change the décor when it’s a different holiday season. Meaning, Valentine's stuff will stay up until Halloween.” RM mumbles distractedly, inspecting the tangled roses in the bushes. “Funny, isn’t it? Eight months of Valentines.”

“I’d like that, actually.” RM glances at him inquisitively. “Pink is my favorite color. Valentine's is when pink flourishes, right? A season of love, of rose petals, and pink – what’s there not to like?”

“I presumed you to be a more Christmas person, but I guess not.”

“Oh, Christmas. That’s Taehyung’s favorite.”

“Makes sense.”

“Christmas was always about parties and snobby, ancient fossils chanting jingle bells around my father. The concept is fabulous, but my experience with it is abhorrent.”

“Ah.”

“You? What’s your favorite holiday?”

“I don’t really have one,” RM’s nail scratches Seokjin’s skin, “Maybe New Years? Scrumptious food. But my relatives were fussy so perhaps not?”

Seokjin notices that the majority of RM’s touchy memories seem to originate from his family – the shadow that shaded his face when he mentioned his sister, the disowning from his family, and now. However, as a person that is aware of that bitterness, Seokjin lets it slide. “Is this the gobchang place? It was on TV once, yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s popular.” RM drags the door to the left and enters. The aroma of meat and spring onion kimchi slithers out and engulfs Seokjin. At this rate, he’s persuaded that the escort is attempting to court him with delicious meals. _But am I complaining? No, I’m not. _“How many bottles of soju?”

“Begin with one.”

“Alright. _Imo, _two servings of gobchang and a bottle of soju!” They take a seat next to the window, furthest from the kitchen. “Is Hoseok still stalking us somewhere? Should I gaze into your oh-so-beautiful eyes so that he can capture a better picture of us?”

“No, there’s a hundred-percent chance that he flew off after witnessing us holding hands.”

“That’s like, a century ago.”

“He’s that kind of friend.” Seokjin uncaps the bottle of alcohol and pours it into his petite glass. A lady drops by and places a platter of gobchang and raw liver on their table. “A fantastic one. In all aspects possible. Ah, but I don’t like it when he’s my secretary. He nags me too much.”

“That’s relatable.” RM pours his own cup and begins grilling the gobchang. “When I was hospitalized –“

“You were _hospitalized?_” Seokjin exclaims with dilated pupils, and RM freezes at his outburst. “Uh, I mean. With your level of clumsiness, I should’ve foreseen that.”

“It was eons ago. Nothing to worry about.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

“Sure, mom.” RM sniggers, as he flips over the intestine on the pan, “When I was hospitalized, Suga-hyung would bring packed lunches three floors tall, cooked by him and everything. He’d knock me on the head – which had been bleeding three days ago – pester me about not taking my meds properly.”

“That’s your fault, Joon.” Seokjin snorts as he gnaws on his kimchi. “I really wish to meet him sometime. I have a feeling we’d get along.” _And I still owe him an apology, not that I believe he wants one. _

“He’s interested in you, too. Though, I hypothesize that that logic is due to the fact that you’re his boyfriend’s brother.” RM refills his cup. “What kind of person is Kim Taehyung? Not that I doubt his character, but I was fascinated that you’re brothers. You guys emit very disparate auras.”

“We’re,” He’s feeling lightheaded. Must be the alcohol. “Not brothers by blood. He was adopted at a very young age, because our fathers were friends since college.” RM gradually lowers his glass of soju, his serene smile drooping into a horizontal line. “Now that I reflect on it, it was probably a charity project. There’s no way on Earth that man would adopt a child out of camaraderie. No way on Earth.”

RM’s chopsticks clang against the steel lining of the surface. “That’s… a charity project?”

“Kim Collective was in chaos then, after rumors about the practice of nepotism in our company proliferating through businesses, and of course, to the press. Market shares declined rapidly, we were losing trust from clients, investors… and then he adopted Taehyung.” He recalls the morning where he skimmed the newspapers, with Taehyung’s photo scattered over the rough pages, alongside his father. “It improved our image, definitely. The wacky thing about people is that they see what they want to see. Opinions are capricious. Bound to transition from black and white, just like that – because changing one’s opinion is free.”

“And Kim Seokhoon,” RM tongues his cheek, “Used Kim Taehyung for that purpose.”

“I didn’t believe that initially either,” Seokjin orders a new bottle of soju. “But a couple of years later, when our revenue began to collapse again due to other gossip articles and whatnot, he funded Jungkook’s education and publicized that.” RM clamps his mouth, obviously conflicted. “I can’t forgive that man.” He exhales to recompose himself, _don’t implode here, Kim Seokjin, this is stupid. You’re getting personal again, that’s your problem every single damned time. Alcohol, alcohol, this crappy alcohol. _“He ruptured my freedom and stripped me of my choices, just because we were connected by some nucleic acid trash, and I swallowed that fate. He utilized my family, my friends, to his advantage – and I overlooked that, because I was powerless. But this,” He drinks a shot, the acrid taste of soju cascading down his throat. It’s a dizzying sensation that induces him to crush the dam in his mind. “I can at least do this.”

RM pours his cup anew. “Do what?”

“Protect my decision.” He thanks RM by moving a piece of gobchang from the grill to his plate. “To marry someone that I truly love and build a real family.” Empty, soulless laughter bubbles from his gut. “But that’s too much to yearn, so I suppose it’s more like… my decision to mess up this wedding.”

RM peers at him solemnly, Seokjin’s gifted gobchang left untouched. “Why is that too much?” Seokjin returns his stare with a bewildered look. “Why did you swallow that fate, as if it was common sense?” The escort shudders, and his eyes quiver in the same fashion as when Seokjin degraded Suga at the social meet. “Why is your happiness something that you have to ache for, not something you deserve?”

_Why?_

_It’s not like I never asked myself those questions. _

“Jin,” RM mutters gently, “You deserve love. You deserve happiness. Just like anyone else.”

_But I was waiting for someone to tell me that. _

“Are you saying that because satisfying a customer’s needs and wants is a bullet point on your job requirement PPT?” Seokjin bites his tongue, blinking away the pooled droplets in his eyes. This is a fake date. This is a _fake_ date.

“No.” RM smiles comfortingly, and it has the same effect as holding hands – warm, fuzzy, and agonizingly desirable. Even when he has a streak of ssamjang on his chin, the escort makes him feel like this. _How am I going to swallow _this_ fate? _“It’s something I wanted to tell you, ever since the social meet.”

Oh, now _that’s _unexpected.

“… Sorry?” Seokjin frowns, puzzled, “The social meet where I demeaned your best friend? That dreadful party that I want to exterminate from the canvas of my memories?”

“The ‘canvas of my memories,’ how poignant. But yes, that party.”

“I was an asshole, RM.”

“You were,” He nods to acquiesce, “However, I also inferred that you didn’t mean it – you’re an adept people-reader, but so am I.” RM averts his attention elsewhere briefly, and Seokjin can also tell that he’s doing this for his reasons as well, not just for him. “I thought that’s what you had to hear.”

“… Why?”

“Everyone has something that has to be spoken to them directly, regardless of how obvious that might be.” RM’s head sinks, and it strikes him – this is the escort’s way of displaying that he’s also destroying his own walls. It’s not just Seokjin.

This time, for once, it’s not just Seokjin.

“That ‘everyone,’” He stresses the term, “includes you too, doesn’t it?”

RM huffs shortly. “Correct.”

“And I shouldn’t be overstepping your boundaries, more than what I’ve already done – at least for now, right?”

“For a drunk person, you sure are sagacious.” The male beams in relief. “You’re correct, again.”

“Alright.” Seokjin grabs the final gobchang on the charcoaled grill. “One day, would you be willing to tell me what you want to hear?”

RM does just a fraction of a nod. “Sure.”

“Okay. Well, I’m paying for this meal, and we’re going to walk.”

“Why walk?”

“Because I have to stay fit, Joon. And the streets are pretty – it’s romantic, isn’t it?”

“Why’d you want to walk down a romantic street with me?”

“You’re my boyfriend, who else should I walk down a romantic street with?”

RM chuckles in a drunken manner, his cheeks flushed and dimples loose. “Touché.”

Seokjin strides to the cashier and pays for the meal, and the escort entwines their fingers like it’s natural – like they’ve always done this. Again, for the umpteenth time, Seokjin isn’t complaining. He’s certain that he never will, at this point.

There’s a crowd milling in Café Street, now that it’s nighttime. The rose pink, magenta, and neon white fairy lights adorning the trees and bushes illuminate the obscure, dark sky. Some famous pop song is playing from the speakers perched next to the stores, and the pair blends into the hundreds of other couples that stroll past them. “There’s a park over there. You see the arch of roses?” He does – there’s a white arch, roses, and vines curled around its body. “That’s the entrance.”

“Is that also a Valentine's event that they didn’t shut down?”

“Yeah. But you like Valentines, so.” RM narrows a brow, “Or would you prefer something less romantic to do with me?”

“No, this is fine.” Seokjin chortles as they walk ahead, ducking as they pass the arch together. A stream flows to their left, and a patch of roses that are overgrown and untended on the right. It’s a full moon, and they’re the only couple in the vicinity, the cacophonous noise of people and music becoming increasingly distant and vague as they move. His shirt is damp with sweat – it’s a little hot. His hand is slippery, and so is RM’s, but he doesn’t want to let go.

_What is he?_

“Hey, Joon,” Seokjin drawls, kicking a pebble blocking his path, “Let’s go somewhere you want on our next date.” He ruminates over their extensive conversations today. “How about the beach? You can catch your hermit crabs, and I can devour my lobsters. I’m eager to break my last record of eleven lobsters.”

“The beach,” RM considers for a while, “That’s… good. Marvelous. I’d love that.”

“Okay.” Seokjin hums and closes his eyes. “Can I hug you on our next date?”

“I mean,” Laughing, RM faces Seokjin, squeezing his hand and urging them to halt. Seokjin obeys that silent signal. “You’re the client. You make the choices.”

“I’m the client, but that doesn’t mean I’m conducting physical contact without your consent.” It’s a little weird to be holding hands even now, with their wrist angled uncomfortably. But neither of them let go. “Consent is important, right? I’m quoting you.”

“Of course.” RM pauses – his laughter has vanished, and the mood transitions into something more serious, but not negatively. This is the kind of atmosphere that makes one believe that they have to take action – “Then can I ask for your consent, too?”

Seokjin breathes in. “On what?”

“Can I kiss you?”

_As an escort, or as you? _

Seokjin licks his teeth. “I don’t kiss until the third date.”

RM smirks jokingly. “That’s not a no, is it?”

“Did you hear a no in that sentence?”

“I didn’t.”

“There’s your answer.”

_Ah, fuck, he’s still hot with dried ssamjang on his chin. _

***

“It’s a beautiful day.”

“It is.”

“Ethereal.”

“SAT vocabulary, cool.”

“Why are you here, Chim?”

“I have a job at Mapo.” Jimin mopes dramatically, “Are you proclaiming that I need a reason to ride my best friend’s car?”

“Maybe if your best friend is on their first date, yeah.”

“Oh, Tae,” The dancer sighs, clucking his tongue, “A best friend test is essential. Mandatory. How am I supposed to trust you with a man I’ve never conversed with?”

“I never interrogate your boyfriends, Jimin-ah.” Taehyung whines as they get stuck on a red light. Mapo is only three kilometers away now, and Jimin is _still _in the car. He’s not quite alright with that. “And Suga-hyung is tense around strangers.”

“That’s none of my business, and I never really had boyfriends.” Adjusting his sunglasses, Jimin clears his throat. “Those were my flings. You don’t think I’d actually do more than fuck those guys, right?”

Taehyung sighs exasperatedly. “You’re a sex addict, Chim.” The red’s now green – two-point-five kilometers, Jimin’s on the car. Wonderful. “Why don’t you just ask Kookie out? He likes you back, you know.”

“I don’t like Kookie.”

“And you’re straight, yeah.”

“Tae –“

“Are you serious about greeting Suga-hyung?”

“Dead.”

“Great.” Taehyung grunts – Mapo Bridge has entered his field of vision. A tuft of purple locks sticks out from a white beanie, belonging to a man in a black topcoat and gray pants. He can’t suppress the smile that blooms on his lips, and Jimin takes notice.

“Huh, so that’s him, in the flesh.” Jimin twists in his seat to get a better view. “He’s short.”

“A centimeter taller than you.”

“Minor details.”

He stops in front of Suga and lowers the window. “Hey, hyung.”

Suga flashes his gummy smile, and god, Taehyung is melting. “Hey, Taehyung.” Then, “And… Park Jimin-ssi.” Jimin grins and promptly steps out of the vehicle, marches towards Suga (who flinches like a cautious kitten), and shoots out his hand.

“My name is Park Jimin. I believe I’ve threatened you before.” Taehyung blinks at their exchange, but Suga nods and shakes the hand.

“My name is Suga. Thank you for the threat – it was a perfect wake up call.”

“Taehyung likes you a lot, and based on your smile, I think you do, too. I’d be very delightful if things remain that way.” Jimin’s tone is chipper and charming, but not welcoming in the slightest. “The threat will stand, if you repeat your errors. I protect fiercely; I’m not sure if you follow.”

“I do.” The other affirms determinedly, “Really.”

“Okay,” Jimin murmurs, the tension in his shoulders dissolving into thin air. “Enjoy your date, then.” The Park waves at the couple and marches in the direction of his next destination, while Suga climbs into the car.

“What’s this about Jiminie _threatening_ you?”

“History.” Suga swats away, “He was justified, and I don’t blame him. It’s not that crucial, trust me.”

“If you say so.” Taehyung thrusts his curiosity aside. “So, did you have plans? A schedule? I’m fine with anything.”

“You said that you find organized people sexy, so yeah.” Suga leans back on the seat. “I have a movie I’d like to watch. I’m also craving for jjamppong, so we’re eating Chinese. And then, we’ll lounge about on Mapo Bridge and chat. Objections?”

“None, General Suga.” Taehyung salutes and types in the location for the nearest cinema, “Which movie, by the way?”

“Ah, a rom-com. There’s an actress that I like starring as the main female protagonist.”

“Oh, really? Who is it?”

“Seo Hyunjin. The actress that was in _Oh Haeyoung Again _and _Beauty Inside. _I think she’s filming a drama called _Black Dog_ now, but I’m going to binge-watch it later. I can’t possibly wait every week for a new episode.”

Taehyung gasps, “_What, _I love her too! God, she’s such a talented actress, isn’t she? Her and Lee Dahee are my stans, they’re fucking gorgeous. I modeled with Lee Dahee once, and she was _so _pretty, like –“ He shuts up the very next second. Suga blinks at him. “Of course, you’re like, a thousand times prettier, hyung. If, if Dahee-noona is a petite dahlia, then you’re like, a waterfall of unicorns.”

Suga blinks again, and abruptly laughs with his high-pitched voice.

“Wuh- I mean it, hyung!”

“I wasn’t jealous, Taehyung-ah, you didn’t have to clarify yourself.”

Taehyung ‘hmph’s. “I’d be jealous if you describe another person like that.”

Suga giggles – _giggles – _and it’s fucking adorable. God, Taehyung’s pre-boyfriend is so adorable, what the hell. “You’re the most handsome guy I know. You’d never have to be jealous.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Alright, I feel rejuvenated. I want caramel popcorn.”

“I want cheese nachos.”

“Jesus, you must be clairvoyant, ‘cause you just literally read my mind.”

They bicker and ramble about their lives as they drive to the cinema. Suga hasn’t been accepting any assignments for some days, ‘I’m tired of trying to match a person’s mood,’ he reasons, and Taehyung hums sympathetically. So he explains how his recent photoshoot went, and also how he might appear as a cameo in another SBS drama. The escort listens attentively, dropping a few comments here and there where he deems to be appropriate. It’s almost therapeutic, with the faint jazz melody that echoes in the car, and Suga’s hint of a smile as he interacts with Taehyung.

It’s like a dream.

At the cinema, Suga purchases the tickets as Taehyung buys their snacks and beverages. There are some fans that squeal upon seeing him, but since he’s not with Suga, he doubts that it’d be of any issue. It’s not like he’s countrywide famous, anyway. “Tae, can you keep the popcorn for a minute? I need the restroom.”

“Oh, yeah. Should I wait for you inside the theater?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back soon.”

He nods and searches for their theater and then their seats. Suga bought the seats in the middle – the best ones – and Taehyung plops on the chair. There’s not a lot of people, maybe five or so, and that puts him at ease. It indicates that he didn’t have to mind the attention of others too much. He doesn’t want to be cautious and constantly anxious about other people today.

“Did the movie begin?” Suga slips onto his chair and munches on a nacho. “Never mind, we’re on ads.”

“I think they’re almost done. The Kumho tire ad is usually the last one.” The Kumho tire ad comes on, and they both snuggle into the cushions of their seats. “Hyung, I wanna hold your hand.” Suga glimpses at him sideways and snorts. Then, he curls his hand around Taehyung’s wordlessly, his obsidian orbs glued to the screen.

The movie involves a middle-aged office lady, acted by Seo Hyunjin, who accidentally spends a night at a motel with a younger man in his twenties, who happens to be her new superior and neighbor. It’s cliché and trite, but definitely funny. Taehyung chuckles at some lines and so does Suga, especially when a bucket of flour is dumped on Hyunjin’s head during a baking lecture. “She’s as cumbersome as Joon,” Suga mumbles quietly, and Taehyung glances at him.

“Joon?”

Suga goes silent, his fingers hard and completely still for a brief moment. _Ah, he wasn’t meaning to say that, _Taehyung realizes. “It’s RM’s… nickname. Not his actual name.”

“Yeah, cool.”

The movie progresses, approaching the climax. Seo Hyunjin is crying, as she maintains her stoic face and steely composure. Taehyung doesn’t breathe and watches, totally enraptured by the scene.

_“You don’t love me,” _She chokes out with clenched fists, _“You love the fabricated me. You love the Han Sehyun that buys your morning latte, the Han Sehyun that sings off-pitch at karaoke, the Han Sehyun that likes Italian pizza and poodles. That Han Sehyun is appealing, isn’t she? Because I made her that way. She must be.” _

The male protagonist massages his temples, but doesn’t look away. _“No, I love you. That’s right, I love Han Sehyun. But I know the Han Sehyun that doesn’t like to shower in the morning, the Han Sehyun that eats food on the ground because it hasn’t been three seconds yet, the Han Sehyun that sucks at baking and is even worse at cleaning a room. You’re just spitting out excuses for yourself, for this relationship. Don’t do that, Sehyun.” _

“Excuses,” Suga whispers next to him, waking Taehyung from his trance, “That hurts.”

Taehyung strokes Suga’s palm. “Why?”

“Because those kinds of excuses derive from legitimate fears. And you can’t just undo your fears. To demand someone of that duty, that’s…” The man’s voice is almost inaudible, the volume of the movie suddenly too loud and obtrusive. “That’s cruel. No matter how true it might be.”

“What…” Taehyung nibbles on the chapped portion of his lip, “What are your fears?”

Suga appears lost. “I don’t know. I… I never wanted to identify them.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’d run away,” He mumbles under his breath, “And remember that I have nowhere to run away to.”

Taehyung doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he wraps his arm around his pre-boyfriend’s shoulders. They’re not as wide as his brother’s – they’re thin, sharp, and defined. “I’ve always known my fears,” He’s not watching the movie anymore, but the protagonists are kissing, so it must be a happy ending.

“What are they?”

“Losing people that are dear to me,” _Eonjin, Junggyu, mom, dad, _“Preparing an apology, a confession, a speech, but having no audience,” There’s an orchestra of violins and cellos in the background, but Suga’s focus is on Taehyung. Neither of them is interested in the movie anymore. “Possessing so much love, but having nobody to gift it to.”

“Scary, huh?”

“Yeah. Scary as heck.”

“I understand.” Suga says, and Taehyung knows that he really does. “The credits are rolling, by the way. Are you the type to sit until the whole movie ends?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Okay.” With that, Suga doesn’t rise from his chair. He patiently stares at the seemingly incessant list of names and sponsors, and that minor act of kindness causes Taehyung to grin like an idiot.

When the lights turn on, they get to their feet and exit the theater. “Chinese?” Taehyung recites the next course on their schedule, and Suga nods.

“Unless you want something else.”

“Nah, I love Chinese. Like jjajangmyeon? Yum.”

“Figures. I know a vacant restaurant behind the mall. I ate there once.” Suga releases his grasp on Taehyung. It’s a little cold without his touch. “The girls that were fawning over you earlier – are they still around? You don’t want pictures taken, do you?”

Taehyung shrugs imperturbably. “I don’t really care. My fans snap photos all the time and post them online – it shouldn’t be a problem, though. Jungkook identifies them and erases them, and Jimin has his sources, too. Don’t worry about it.” But Suga still seems antsy, as he examines Taehyung nervously. “Suga? Why? Is this about the paparazzi – BigHit? Crap, I wasn’t considerate of you, was I? You’re at danger too, what was I thinking –“

“No, BigHit has their connections, too, but…” The escort trails away in thought, “Taehyung, how sturdy are Jimin’s sources?”

“Huh?”

“Or, how influential is Jimin, in regards to the media?”

“Uh…” He wasn’t prepped for that question. Jimin promised that he had strings he could control, and as proof, Taehyung rarely had photos of him posted on social media or gossip articles published and spread. Whatever Jimin was doing, he was doing it well. “Pretty influential? Not sure about the range, but he’s been in the industry for a while. There’s his family, too – they’re respected.” Suga nods in a daze, evidently absorbed in his own world. “Why’d you ask?”

“No, nothing. I was just… speculating. The Parks are mysterious.” Suga sputters stiffly, and although Taehyung can conclude that it’s not just that, he once again, dismisses the issue. The older man always concealed something from Taehyung. This was merely one of those many secrets. “We should eat dinner. I’m starving.”

“Seconded.”

Dinner is chill, with Suga and his jjamppong, Taehyung and his jjajangmyeon, and a service of fried dumplings between their bowls. It’s a delectable supper, and Taehyung ignores the fact that he should mind his diet. He’s on a date, after all. He’s allowed to go overboard and forget the petty rules that bound him to his career. Modeling was fun, but chained him to certain responsibilities that pained him.

“Speaking of which, how’d you meet Jimin?”

“Oh, Chim?” Taehyung bites into a cube of pork, “A… party, probably. It’s a long time ago. I was the one that befriended him first, and then introduced him to Hoseok-hyung and Jin-hyung. He met Jungkook a _lot _later, though.”

“Jungkook, your manager-secretary-bodyguard kid?”

“Yeah, him. Our precious maknae.”

Suga sniffs, “Poor brat, having to tend to your festive personality twenty-four-seven. Why’d he meet Jimin later?”

“Kookie was… well, he didn’t have an astounding reputation. Jimin’s parents are nice people, but they were more reluctant about letting Jimin see Jungkook. Apparently they heard that he was this gangster brat who had no sense of morals.” The elder scrunches his nose distastefully. “Yeah, I know. Kookie didn’t show it, but he was pretty upset. They get along, though – Jungkook addresses him as ‘Jimin-ssi’ all the time and Chim despises it.”

“Is that really ‘getting along’?”

“They get along swimmingly, I’m serious.” Taehyung snickers and Suga seems fine with that. “Do you want to be friends with Chim, too?”

The escort coughs on a clam. “_No, _where’d you get that idea?”

“I mean, you kept on going about him, so…”

“I was just thinking,” Suga groans, his tossed spoon sinking into the spicy soup, “That you have pleasant friends. You… look happy when you talk about them. You light up.” Taehyung frowns quizzically. Suga blushes into a tomato. “I like it when you’re happy, okay? You have a boxy smile, and I think it’s cute, and I was trying to see it more often and –“ He waves his hand, embarrassed, “Forget it. This is fucking shameful.”

“You think I’m _cute_?”

“Yeah, I mean, you’re –“ Suga flits at him, the tips of his ears reddening, “Yeah. Whatever.”

Taehyung coos, butterflies and moths and _stuff _fluttering in his stomach. He does a mini tap dance thing with his feet beneath the table, repressing a scream. _Gosh, this is so damned hard. _“You like my smile?”

“Yes, _yes, _don’t expect me to reiterate that –“

“I really like you too.” There’s smoke discharging from Suga’s body, he’s positive, as the male curls into himself bashfully. “You’re so adorable, hyung, how?”

“Shut _up_.”

“Aww, you’re like a small strawberry –“

Suga slaps him on the neck and Taehyung laughs gleefully. This whole situation is a stark contrast from their other meal together, where everything was gloomy and somber even with his favorite person sitting across him, with japchae and other food. It feels as if it could last forever, with Suga pink but blithe, and Taehyung giddy and bright.

Not that anything lasts forever, but he can dream.

Suga uses his credit card to pay, despite Taehyung’s complaints and whimpers. “We’re not amidst an assignment, Tae. This is so minute in comparison to how much you’ve paid for me.”

“That was of my own volition, hyung.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s my will to buy this dinner, so there you have it.” Suga smirks pompously, and Taehyung lets it slide. Nothing really matters, as long as he’s sharing this moment with Suga.

They wander to Mapo Bridge, the breeze soothing and pleasurably cool, the heat from the food waning in his stomach. There are slogans on the fences and bars that line the bridge – anti-suicide slogans. It’s heartwarming to scan each one, intended to caress the broken souls of lost, stranded people that had nowhere, nobody to lean on. He’s pondering about why Suga has brought them here, until the man stops in the middle of the bridge. He doesn’t part his mouth, though, and Taehyung decides to give him time. The wind lulls him to sleep, now that he’s nourished and placated. How long would this peace last? A minute? Ten seconds? An hour?

“You know,” The gravelly rumble of Suga’s voice merges with the gust of air. “I tried to commit suicide here, once. Only once. Right here.”

Taehyung turns to Suga, who’s staring at the splashing waves below. The water is dark, that it seems abyssal. The butterflies in his gut transform into mud, his insides coiling. But Suga is completely tranquil as he utters that revelation, as if he’s talking about the weather.

“I remember the sequence of events. I ate a bowl of jjamppong and stumbled here. I was reading the slogans on the bars. There was a rescue boat journeying back to the dock. The suicide hotline was there – though I guess they transferred it to another location now. It was malfunctioning that day, at least. It was a lot more frigid than today, though it was June. I was going to kill myself.”

Taehyung gulps. His heart wrenches for the man in front of him, who is only five centimeters away but five worlds apart. When would he ever be able to embrace this man and assure him that it’s okay? When would he ever be able to comfort him with his name? “Why didn’t you?”

Suga huffs, and his onyx eyes glisten under the moonlight. “I was scared. What was drowning like? The water would fill my lungs, my throat, and I wouldn’t be able to breathe, I’d lose consciousness, and then – and then, who’d search for me?” A strained chuckle evades him, and Taehyung knows that this is Suga trusting V – he’s trying. He’s trying so hard. For Taehyung – for them. He isn’t trying to create excuses for their relationship, when his excuses originate from legitimate fears. It makes Taehyung want to cry, just a little. Maybe a lot. “I was sick of surviving, not living, Tae. But I was petrified about dying. So all I could do was to continue surviving.”

“I’m glad you made that choice,” Taehyung mumbles shakily, “I’m so thankful that you’re with me.”

“Me too.” Suga smiles weakly. Taehyung pulls the shorter man into his arms. “I thought I’d panic when I returned here. I called RM during a panic attack the last time I was here.” The Kim lets out a stuttered sigh, tightening his embrace around Suga, as if he were a child desperate to glue a shattered vase together again. “I feel fine, though.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Suga discerns him with an empathizing smile, “So don’t look so sad, Taehyung-ah.”

“I don’t want you to be sad.” He blinks the brimming tears out, and the escort chuckles.

“I’m not sad, Tae. I’m glad that I made that choice, too.”

“I want to kiss you.” He mumbles in a hushed tone, “Let’s kiss, hyung.”

And Suga presses their lips together. It’s not intensely searing, burning, but more intimate, their movements minimal but emotions at peak, as Taehyung fondles the tangled stands of Suga’s hair, Suga’s hand stroking his jawline.

It’s a night to remember.


	14. Author's Note

Hi guys! 

... I know I haven't been punctual with my updates nowadays, and I'm so sorry about that. 

This note is to inform you guys that the next chapter might come a little later. Later. Not never, but maybe about three weeks to a month. My friends and I are now seniors, we're all ARMYs, and being in an international school, we're all going to be separated after graduation - which is three months from now. We decided to work on a small performance for our upcoming senior trip, which is to dance to Boy with Luv! ... And I'm a terrible dancer, so you know. I need to practice - we all do. 

Anyway, for the sake of friendship and memory-building with my friends, I concluded that it was for the best to put fics on a temporary hiatus of around a month. I know my last update took around a month too, and I'm really sorry about that (I'm also working on a birthday Namjin fic for a really close friend, and that's taking up my time to write this one), but I hope you guys can understand. 

I love you all that leave kudos, comments, subscribe, or even those that just read for pastime! Thank you so much for enjoying _Call Me by My Name, _and I hope you'll stick to this long journey till the end. 

Until my next update (probably around late February to early March),

Meiko Atsushi


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